


into the friendly dark

by oemori



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Abuse, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Original Character(s), Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Sensory disorder!Jack, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2019-02-20
Packaged: 2019-07-14 10:56:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 33,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16039058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oemori/pseuds/oemori
Summary: Jack Morrison joins the SEP. From there, everything changes.Or, alternatively: A story about underground bases, terrible roommates, lots of injections, and a guy who could maybe make it all worth it.





	1. onwards and downwards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to my first Overwatch fic! Strap in and get ready for some slow burn, avoidable misconceptions, breaking of canon, and a whole lot of angst. 
> 
> By the end of this thing, we might just have a story worth telling. 
> 
> Enjoy!

White, white, white.

Jack’s first impression of the base is how clean it is — completely sterile, in a way that even hospitals aren't. There's no gentle splashes of color, no chairs or potted plants to ease the discomfort of flat, unkind liminality. There's no sign of imperfection anywhere. Everything is scrubbed blank and smells faintly of iron and fresh plastic and Windex. It feels more like a morgue than a military base. From what he saw as they were ushered from the hovercraft that delivered them into the complex, the outside isn't much better; dusty and flat, speckled with drought-resistent cacti and not much else. Lots of concrete and blue cloudless skies and a sun bearing brutally down from overhead.

At least there's windows: plexiglass, double-paned panels that stretch down parts of the tall winding halls and create an illusion of openness. The view isn't much, just baked earth and sky, but it's something.

Or, it had been something. Those windows are now far overhead, letting in light to parts of the base that Jack is unsure that he'll ever touch again. That's how it had felt, anyhow, as the small group had piled into a surprisingly large service elevator that sank them down deep underground.

There's no windows a mile under. Only concrete and shiny linoleum floors and artificially filtered air. Glancing down the main hall at the other twenty or so odd recruits, lined shoulder-to shoulder with backs ramrod straight as they listen to their orders regarding room assignments and first inspection, Jack can't believe that he’s supposed to make a home for himself here.

He shoulders his duffle a little higher up on his back and grimaces at the weight of it, straps digging uncomfortably into his shoulders. They've been standing here for, what? A half hour? Jack has to keep reminding himself not to lock his knees. He's never been the best at staying still for extended lengths of time. It makes him twitchy. He wishes he could squat, but he gets the feeling that the hard-faced sergeant who's moved on to dishing out their bunk assignments would kick his ass.

Which, agh. Jack’s eye keeps twitching in response to every whistle and bell of the man’a voice. Like nails on a chalkboard: a thin, reedy intonation with no substance and lots of unnecessary shrillness. And he's so loud.

“ _Morrison_!” The man — Perkins, or something — barks suddenly, and Jack straightens up in alarm.

“Room 201, with… Fir,” Perkins-or-something continues gruffly, flipping back and forth through the sheets on his clipboard to find the right assignment. He looks up at Jack, gives him a quick once over, and Jack almost thinks that there's a tiny grimace in the turn of his lip. But before he can say anything, Perkins looks away and is back to rattling out names and numbers.

That shakes him out of his thoughts. Weird. Weird, weird, weird. An elbow digs minutely into Jack’s side, and he tilts his head to glance down at the recruit standing beside him. Meyers — his only acquaintance in this whole thing— lifts a brow inquisitively, her face echoing the confusion that rattles in Jack’s ribcage.

Before he can even attempt to silently communicate his own bewilderment, footsteps echo loudly through the corridor and cause all in attendance, Perkins included, to snap to attention. An imposing woman in military dress — their commander, likely — rounds the nearby corner with a white-cloaked medic in tow, and it's like the weird pause never existed.

Perkins salutes and steps to the side so that she can take center stage, and she does so without pause, the heels of her boots clicking against the linoleum floor as she turns to face the line of recruits. Her gaze is like steel as it rakes over them, and her hands fold behind her back. After a moment, her expression softens. She smiles, and it gently touches the corners of her eyes.

“Hello and welcome,” she says, voice radiating authority and something almost like stern pride, “I am General Anderson. Let me be the first of many to officially congratulate you on your acceptance into the SEP.”

And just like that, it's real.

The air is tight with anticipation and nervous energy. Jack feels that he could almost choke on it. He hates it, but it's exciting too — sends a thrill of something foreign shivering up and down his spine. When the commander begins, in a voice turned low and quiet with unspoken power, to detail what their lives will soon become, Jack wants to dive right in, dangers be damned. He's not eager, not really; he's just ready. He feels, distantly, that this is what he's always been meant to do. What he's always meant to become.

But simultaneously, he feels, for the first time in months, an aching, hollow pining for his bed in Indiana. For when his life was simpler. For when no one stood before him, shoulders and jaw squared and set, and told him that his life was no longer his own. He misses his dog and his mom and the ability to choose.

He clenches his teeth against the ache in his heart and rallies the shivering thrill in his spine.

And he feels so sure and so right and so, so lost.

—

“They ran these tests on all of us back in basic,” Jack says hesitantly, kicking softly at where his loaded duffle sits on the floor beneath his chair. The woman testing his blood pressure just fixes him with a look of disapproval, scribbling a number onto the page on her clipboard before releasing the pressure on Jack’s arm.

“We like to take our own numbers,” she says simply, ripping the Velcro seal open and removing the device from his bicep. “Quit fidgeting, kid.”

Jack stops kicking his duffel.

The medic turns away for a moment. Jack glances around the makeshift room, at the blue crepe curtains that separate him from the other recruits receiving physicals. He feels an urge to kick his bag again, but resists it, especially when the medic turns back around with a rubber strip in hand.

“Which arm?” She asks, and Jack wordlessly sticks out his right.

She ties it quickly, swabs it clean with some bloody looking disinfectant, and turns away again to rummage around on her tray, one gloved hand keeping a hold on Jack’s arm.

“We need to test for things like bodily constitution, blood type, antibodies,” she says, and turns back around with a thick needle in hand. She slaps gently at Jack’s inner elbow. “You've got good veins. Make a fist with your left hand.”

“Thanks,” he says weakly.

“Stop kicking your bag, or I'll blow your vein and you'll have two sore arms instead of one.”

He stills his feet as she grabs his forearm and pushes the needle into his arm. It pinches for a brief moment, but then she's attaching a syringe, holding a swab of cotton on the site, and blood begins filling the small vial in her other hand.

“With the injections, we have the ability to strengthen certain parts of your body that may be lacking,” the woman continues, gaze concentrated on Jack’s arm and the blood in her hand. “Obviously, we aim to increase bodily efficiency and the ability to put on muscle mass. Your VO2 max and lung capacities will also change, as well as your body’s regenerative abilities. Those are universal to all units. But we can make other changes as well. If you have a poor immune system, for example, we may be able to remedy that. There are certain cases in which we can add or subtract things to the serums in order for them to be most effective.”

“They're personalized?” Jack jokes, but there's some awe to his voice. A little flutter of hope takes hold on his chest; maybe he'll finally be able to build some real muscle.

“If they weren't, we’d have more failures than successes,” she says simply, “you can't strengthen parts of the body and leave others lacking in comparison. If we can fix it, there's no point in not trying.”

She glances over her shoulder, checking the nearby clock, and continues almost mindlessly. “In comparison, if someone already has high potentials in certain categories, such as oxygen uptake, they may not need as much assistance as someone who does not have naturally high potentials. It's all very relative.”

“Hence the tests.”

“Hence the tests,” she agrees, turning back around, and clicks her tongue as the vial finishes filling. She gently removes the needle from his arm, cleans the site and removes the tourniquet, and packages up his blood. Jack stares down at the fresh purple tape wrapped around his arm and mulls over her words.

“So…” he says slowly.

“Injections don't start until tomorrow,” she interrupts, and Jack breathes a sigh of relief. He's not sure how many holes he can handle having poked in him in one day.

“That eager, huh?”

“I don't know,” Jack says honestly. “It's a little scary, isn't it?”

“Success rate is holding steady at thirty percent, with zero deaths reported,” she says.

“Is that supposed to encourage me?”

“I'm not here to lie to you,” she answers sternly, and turns back to Jack with her clipboard in hand. “Nor am I willing to coddle you, recruit. The serums will take, or they won't, and you'll suffer the consequences. That's the reality you're facing — it's what you signed up for, kid.”

The ‘kid’ comment smarts. He's twenty-one, for crissake. He's been individually selected for the Soldier Enhancement Program, the world’s top undercover operation, basically sold his soul to the American government, and he's still being called a kid.

“My name is Jack,” he tries, but immediately feels himself wither under the disapproval lining the medic’s brow.

“Not here,” She scolds. “Here, you're just a number. You're a test subject, a series of numbers and flaws that we can fix. Until you're not.” She glances down, probably making sure all her boxes are filled, and seems satisfied with what she finds. She pauses then, and she seems almost sympathetic when she unclips and hands him his debrief packet.

The medic pats his shoulder. “Be the thirty percent, kid. Then people will have to learn your name. And if you do make it, with your records? I'm not sure they'll have a choice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no beta ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Questions, comments, concerns, critiques? Let me know! I thrive on feedback. 
> 
> Next chapter will probably be posted within the week. Until next time!


	2. drained and flooded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack gets a psych evaluation and meets his roommate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm blown away by the comments and the kudos, ya'll! You sure know how to make a guy feel appreciated. To show my thanks, and because I felt very motivated, here's chapter two a little earlier than promised! 
> 
> This fire is still but a simmer. The burn will come, but not quite yet. 
> 
> (AKA my faux poetic way of reminding you that this fic is very much a slow burn.)
> 
> Enjoy!

 

Jack’s psych evaluation starts out normal enough. The man asks him about preexisting medical conditions, mental illness, behavioral track records: all things that Jack is pretty sure is already on file somewhere. The SEP certainly is nothing if not thorough. Besides, Jack can understand a need for complete transparency within top secret governmental projects.

The man who sits across him is pleasant and professional. There's a cork clipboard resting on his lap, and he scribbles note after note as Jack answers his increasingly pointed questions. No to depression, yes to anxiety. No to mania, yes to night terrors. It becomes uncomfortable after a while, and Jack’s heels begin kicking gently at the folding chair that he’s set up in. In all of Jack’s years in the military, his mental health has never been put under such scrutiny before. He’s functional, and that had really ever been all that mattered. But this man isn't asking questions about inpatient care.

“It says here that you experience sensitivities to stimuli.”

Jack stiffens. “Sensitivities?”

“Sudden loud sounds, abhorrent smells, bright lights.” The man looks up at Jack, expression completely disinterested. He taps the butt of his bright red pen against his clipboard as Jack gapes, caught completely off guard and floundering for answers.

It's a simple _yes_ , it's not even that difficult a question. Jack has issues with sensory overloads. He always has, and likely always will, no matter what sort of special serum he gets injected with. The world is overwhelming, and he deals with it as best he can. But the question is so sterile, so flatly posed, that Jack isn't certain what his confirming of it will mean for him. The implications are damning and seemingly clear, striking an undertone to the question that makes Jack feel struck off-center.

Across from Jack, the psychologist shifts in his seat.

“Mr. Morrison, do y—”

“Yes,” Jack blurts, heart thrumming anxiously. His fingers twist together in his lap. “But I've never been decapitated or compromised as a result. Being uncomfortable doesn't —”

“That's not what I asked.” The man taps his pen against his clipboard once, twice, like it's a gavel and he's asking for attention. When Jack hesitates, confused, the psychologist nods and smiles. “You interrupt me, I interrupt you, rookie. Just answer the question; we're not gonna decommission you.”

Those are the magic words, and they trigger immediate relief, followed by a thin rush of confusion. Jack supposes that confusion is, at the very least, better than vibrating-out-of-your-seat anxiety.

The last thing that Jack wants is to be sent home due to being labeled as mentally unfit. It wouldn't be the first time that he was underestimated or dismissed because of his sensory issues. The lack of eye contact, the delayed verbal responses, the fidgeting — the list of unsavory symptoms can seem endless. Not to mention Jack’s anxiety. He's not stupid or anything, but he's definitely an overthinker, and that can make him rash. But Jack is anything if not smart. He knows that about himself. He makes up for his faults with hard work and with the knowledge that he can do anything that he puts his mind to.

As a kid, when his sense of self was tested — when he made a teacher mad over a refusal to answer a question, when he was called stupid because he didn't converse correctly, when other kids bullied him because he was small and reacted badly when touched — his mom used to tell him that he wasn't slow or emotional, but thoughtful and passionate. She'd hold him tight and stroke his hair and say he’d be alright, and Jack’s dad would make his favorites for dinner and they’d stay up late watching old TV reruns.

But his parents aren't here to comfort him when he cries, when the other kids ostracize him for being and acting different. And unfortunately, Jack knows that the military sees such differences as liabilities. Jack having an episode in the middle of base would likely get him sent home, not kindness and gentle assurance that he can get through it.

But he's gotten this far, and that's got to count for something.

“Then...” Jack looks down at his hands, still reluctant to answer, to admit any form of weakness. “Then, yes.”

“Thank you,” the psychologist says, and appears to check off a box on his clipboard. He writes something and Jack watches the movements of his pen, trying to parse out what he’s scribbling. Was that an A? Maybe an O —

“Alright, Morrison.”

Jack snaps to attention. His psychologist is examining his clipboard, and when he lifts the cover sheet to glance at something written on the page beneath it, Jack’s heart sinks. It's covered in marks.

The man stands, and Jack does as well, scrambling a little as he grabs his heavy duffel from off of the floor and slings it over his shoulder. When he straightens up, his psychologist examines him one last time, gaze neutral but searching. Jack pats his hips a little self consciously, not sure what to do with his hands.

“I'll submit your paperwork for serum adjustments.”

"Serum adjustments?" Jack pats his duffle. "You gonna... what, I dunno. Cure my night terrors?"

The psychologist barely glances up, his glasses slipped low on the bridge of his nose. His pen scratches as he adds one last note to his paperwork.

"My...um..." Jack trails off, nose wrinkling, and he lifts a hand to scratch nervously at his arm. He's always been unsure of how to name the sandpaper in his blood, the way his eyes dry up when exposed to anything brighter than dim light; he's sensitive, that's all it's ever been. The thought of putting any other name to it makes him nervous, almost like there’s a part of him that thinks he’ll get sent home the moment he does. No matter how hard he works, no matter how many times he proves himself — that fear lives on in him, born from innumerable unfavorable encounters.

The world is not kind to people like Jack. He knows that. He knows that like the back of his hand, like the scar on his forearm.

So it’s hard.

It’s hard.

His psychologist takes pity on him.

"Well, no. But there's a chance we can dial down your sensitivities; primarily those related to your anxiety. Mostly touch, but maybe others. We're working on a perma-SSRI right now that  _may_ be ready for tentative injection -"

As he continues talking, medical jargon bouncing around the room and refusing to stick to Jack's brain, Jack just stands there and blinks. Do they really mean to try and alter his sensory processing? He won't stop them — it would be nice to not worry about crowds and smells and lights and how water on his head makes him twitch. 

But it also makes him nervous. What if it doesn't work? What if it works too well? Is he missing something here?

"So you're saying..." Jack holds up a hand, the other gripping his duffle. He can't help but be suspicious; doctors poking around in his brain and trying to _fix_ him has always boded badly for Jack in the past. "So... Just my anxiety? You can help it?"

"We can try," the psychologist says. "And yes. You're not the only soldier who struggles with anxiety, so it's an adjustment that you'll not experience alone."

The man looks up then, one brow raised. He stares at Jack for a second, and Jack tries to stare back; he mostly settles on the bridge of his glasses rather than his eyes, but it works.

“So...” Jack says. "I'll finally be able to wear gloves?"  
  
“No promises, but maybe,” the psychologist shrugs as he heads toward the door. He opens it for Jack to reveal a short line of recruits waiting for their assessments, all looking a little peeved. Jack glances at the clock above the doorway. His appointment had taken a while.

Jack shakes the man’s hand one last time and leaves quickly, accidentally bumping shoulders with one of the recruits as she heads inside for her appointment. The sudden touch is jarring, filling his mouth with saliva. His shoulder zings and buzzes from the contact.

He thinks about how nice it would be not to worry about that anymore.

—

Jack arrives at bunk 201 with the medic’s words still ringing in his ears. He's still processing everything, the debrief packet heavy in his hands and probably soaked with sweat from his nervous palms. The sight of his door is a welcome one — at least the rooming area wasn't hard to find. And from what he saw, walking past some of the 100 rooms with doors open and quiet chatter echoing from within, the dorms are nice and open and as clean as every other part of the base.

The 200 rooms are a little further from the infirmary, separated from the 100s by some communal spaces and what appears to be a comfortable dining hall. Based on occupancy, it's down time for the super soldiers of the SEP — people are lounging comfortably in many of the public spaces, talking and playing cards and watching television. The familiar sounds of Mario Kart blare from the depths of one room.

Jack can't help but look. It’s a comfortable atmosphere, and a nice reprieve from thoughts about the more depressing parts of the program. There's even some recruits dressed in Jack’s neutral grays that have already mingled with their superior officers. They must have had short psych evals (Jack’s, as expected, had been anything but).

Room 201, surprisingly enough, is at the very end of the 200 hall. The sounds from before have all but faded into muted hums that echo somewhat ominously against the corridor walls. Jack doesn't waste time once he finds his room, squaring his shoulders as he punches in his passcode. He misses it the first time, inputs a 3 instead of an 8, but on the second try, the electric panel door slides open, and he's greeted with the sight of his new home.

And the smell.

In fact, the first thing he notices is the smell. It's like a physical wall, and it slams into his nose with the force of a freight train. He almost gags; no, scratch that, he does gag as he steps inside and glances around the space. The stench, sweat and mildew and something metallic and bloody, is unreal. Clothes litter nearly every inch of the floor and climb up the furniture. Jack’s bed — or what he assumes is his bed — is hidden beneath a pile of what appear to be dirty towels.

The door to what must be the bathroom is closed. Jack doesn't even want to know what it looks like in there.

Jack looks about the room and he just... stands there. His duffel nearly slips off his shoulder, but he catches it at the last second and holds it tightly in his arms. He wants to run away. This can't be his room.

“R’you ‘Morrison’?”

Jack turns to see a tall, very broad shouldered man standing in his doorway. Short, cropped blond hair, a meaty face, and a build that could only come from years and years of dedicated weightlifting. Or, in this case, a serum designed to help you build up enough muscle to crush a car between your bare hands. The name emblazoned over his right bicep reads “Fir”.

“Yeah,” Jack says, wavering. “That's — that's me.”

“Nice stutter,” The guy grins, and it's predatory and full of teeth. This is the kind of guy who gets off on making people uncomfortable, is what Jack immediately thinks, as Fir leans against the doorway in a way that makes him look even bigger.

Yeah. A grade-A asshole.  
  
“So. You're my new roomie, huh?”  
  
And, that's right: he’s Jack’s roommate for the foreseeable future.

Fir walks into the room and shoulders past Jack in a way that is absolutely unnecessary. He pops open the refrigerator, and the unpleasant iron smell gets stronger for a moment before he slams it shut, a bottle of water in his hand.

“I guess so,” Jack says, watching as Fir opens and downs it in one fell swoop. “Is this, um —”

“Sorry about the mess, I'm not much of a cleaner,” Fir says, tossing the water bottle towards his desk. It misses its target — a small, _overflowing_  garbage can — and rolls elsewhere. “We have monthly inspections, but, hey; I think as long as you survive the serums and ya’ shoot straight, they don't care much about what your room looks like. Hope it doesn't bother you.”

Fir laughs and Jack grimaces. _Bother him?_ Just standing in the midst of the space is enough to make his skin crawl. His foot is tapping nervously, and he realizes without surprise that he’s white-knuckling his duffel. He doesn't know where to look; his gaze keeps switching from his bed, to the mess on the floor, to the water bottle lying innocuously beneath Fir’s desk. He feels like bugs are creeping up and down his spine.

Jack’s relationship with cleanliness is complicated, to say the least. He likens himself to be a tidy guy, that's for sure — he does his laundry often, makes his bed in the morning, brushes his teeth at least twice a day — but in all honesty, he's not particularly inclined to keep clean. He doesn't mind clutter, not at all. What he minds are things that prick at his senses. He minds thoughtlessness: things left out that could be bumped into or tripped over, food that could go bad or attract bugs, wrinkled sheets, dirty mirrors. Most of all, he minds _smells_ ; there's a reason why he invests in fancy laundry detergent and cleans his sheets every Sunday. Bad smells are the bane of Jack’s existence, his ultimate Achilles heel. And this room? Is like walking into Jack’s own personal hell.

He looks up to see Fir studying him, a sharp expression on his face.

“It doesn't bother you, does it?” Fir reiterates, and his tone is clipped, daring Jack to speak up. He steps towards Jack, crossing his arms over his chest. Jack can't look him in the eye.

Up close, Fir smells like pinesol and ground beef. He's very tall.

“Speak up, rookie,” he says, too close. “You got a problem with how I keep my room?”

 _Our room_ , Jack wants to say, but he also doesn't want to acknowledge that any part of this room is his. Instead, he wordlessly shakes his head no. After a long moment of uncomfortable silence, Fir grunts and backs off, walking away to flounce gracelessly on his own bed (which, Jack notices, is not covered with towels).

“Great!” Fir says, leaning over to dig into his nightstand drawer. “See, I didn't want to share my room; there was a lottery system, and I got unlucky. Well, I say lottery — but I've heard about you, Morrison.”

Jack looks up, confusion coloring his thoughts. Fir pulls some earmarked magazine out of his nightstand drawer and then snaps it shut, leaning back against his pillows as he flips to a seemingly random page.

“You're a prodigy. Joined for a run, stayed for a mile. Never-say-no type bitch that command just loves. The higher ups are very excited about your _potential_ ,” Fir, still hashing through his magazine, spits the word in the same way that most people say _dogshit_. “And, get this: they paired us up because they think you'll be a good influence on me. That you'll shine some of your golden boy light on me so that I start pissing success or whatever the fuck. Start, what, singing fucking songs and saying thanks every time they stick needles up my fucking asshole.”

Jack grimaces. “What —”

“No, shut the fuck up. I'm talking.” Fir points his magazine at Jack and Jack, against his own better judgement, shuts up. Anxiety crawls up his throat and seals it shut. He clutches his duffel like a lifeline.

“All I gotta say,” Fir sneers, “Is that I have no problem fucking up that pretty face of yours if you think that you can come in here and start messing with my shit. It's bad e-fucking-nough that I got saddled with you in the first place, so just shut the fuck up and leave me alone. We clear?”

Jack hates this guy. He fucking _hates_ this guy. Anger courses through his veins, molten and uncomfortable, and settles low in his gut, mingling with his anxiety in a way that makes him want to vomit. He wants to grab the discarded water bottle and shove it down Fir’s unnaturally thick throat. He wants to tell him that he can fuck right off and take his towels with him. He wants to march to command and demand a roommate who doesn't treat his room like a landfill.

He wants a lot of things.

He just — he doesn't —

Jack stares at the water bottle, tongue thick in his mouth. He's never been good in situations like this. Especially not with the cloying smell of rot in his nose. Especially not with the thought of a meaty fist slamming into his cheekbone. Especially not with the way that the room suddenly seems too bright, too loud, too _much_.

Too much. 

For the second time in a day, Jack misses Indiana.

“Well?” Fir says. “Are we clear?”  
  
“Crystal,” Jack says, because it's all that he can do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the mess. Gabe is coming, I promise. Eventually.... or, like, next chapter. Who knows. 
> 
> (Chapter title based on the song This Place is a Prison by The Postal Service. It slaps. You should totally check it out.)
> 
> Questions, comments, concerns, critiques? Let me know babeyyyyy
> 
> Once again, as always, thanks for reading! See you soon ;)
> 
> -  
> (AUTHOR'S NOTE 9/28: Hiya! It was brought to my attention that this chapter was written in such a way that it came across as ableist (RE: Jack being "cured" of his sensory disorder, which could be read as autism, and would thus be very bad). I never intended to give such an impression, and for that, I apologize, and have edited this chapter in an attempt to be more clear of my purpose. 
> 
> As someone living with an undiagnosed sensory disorder, I write from my own experience - it gladdens me greatly that others can relate to Jack. However, as someone undiagnosed, I feel most comfortable leaving Jack's situation similarly - mostly ambiguous. 
> 
> I never want to make any reader uncomfortable, and if I am able to avoid doing so through fixing some part of my writings, please let me know. But I feel most comfortable with this outcome, and will thus leave the ambiguity of Jack's mental illness intact. Thank you for understanding, and happy reading!)


	3. dancing barefoot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack goes running and meets a stranger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He's here.
> 
> Let the slow burn commence.

Jack leaves Fir alone. He's usually bad at reading people, but for once he can read Fir loud and clear: clear out, or get cleared out. So he — reluctantly — leaves his duffel by the door, on the only spot not covered with dirty laundry, and searches the endless halls until he finds the training gym.

It's a nice space, open and clean, and Jack inhales deeply when he steps inside, relishing in the familiar smells of sweat and disinfectant. Bright LEDs shine down from overhead, illuminating the space down to its bare essentials. The floor is padded with thick, worn mats. A couple of people, all much larger in body habitus than Jack, quietly work out in different sections of the gym. It's almost peaceful.

He finds the treadmills in a separate room that branches off the weight center, the machinery lined up in rows and completely unoccupied. Perfect. Jack kicks off his shoes, hops atop one with incline, and presses his thumb against the up arrow until the conveyer whirrs in protest.

Jack has always liked running, ever since he was a kid. There had been an old fashioned dust track near his childhood home, and it was his go-to whenever things became too much. When he was young, that had been often. He had spent long summers on that track, burning the soles of his feet raw and sprouting freckles on his cheeks that no amount of sunscreen could ever keep away. Running was his safety net, his home when home disintegrated into sounds and smells and sandpaper shapes. When a frustration blossomed in his chest that nothing else could root out.

The treadmill is rough against the bare pads of his feet. He keeps switching up the incline, making sure to keep his stance controlled and his feet landing correctly, but his soles still start burning after a good twenty minutes. He pushes through it anyways. He's got a lot on his mind that he doesn't want there — the situation with Fir, his newfound homesickness, the debrief medical packet sitting across the room alongside his shoes and his discarded sweater. That little, budding bit of discomfort grounds him, and he finds himself melting a little into the increased feeling of his feet hitting the treadmill. After a while, the first high hits, and Jack allows himself to drift, his breaths even and heart plateaued.

When he finally blinks to, sweating buckets and feeling more relaxed than he has since he arrived on base, the sensation in his feet has gone from uncomfortable to painful. He slowly decreases the speed until he slows to a walk, trying not to wince as he focuses on putting one foot in front of the other. He resists the urge to pull off his shirt, and wishes that he’d brought a towel or something to wipe the sweat out of his eyes.

 _Ouch, shit_. Jack taps the speed a bit lower and grimaces. He's gonna feel this burn in his feet for days.

“I thought you weren't supposed to run barefoot on treadmills.”

Jack jumps, heartbeat skyrocketing in surprise at the sound of another voice in his space, and he's yanked headlong out of his moment of peace. The shock is enough that he hits the emergency brake button; luckily he had been going slow enough that it doesn't make much of a difference. The treadmill crawls to a stop, and Jack, battling the rising tide of frustration and nervous energy in his gut, turns to find the source of the voice sitting across the room beside Jack’s things.

And Jack — Jack stops.

Because the man sitting across the room isn't just attractive — he's _unreal_. Brown skin, brown eyes, brown hair — not even the fluorescents that make Jack look so gangly and off color can wash this guy out. In fact, they only serve to accentuate the planes of of his nose, the cut of his cheekbones — the way that his t-shirt fits so well around his shoulders. He's got that same serum-boosted muscle mass that most of the soldiers in the base are sporting, but on him it looks _right_. He looks natural and strong and confident. Their eyes meet for a moment, and he's looking straight at Jack.

Jack looks away, swallows; his throat is dry.

He's embarrassed. Of what, he's not sure. The barefoot thing? The way his once muscular build now seems gangly and insufficient when compared to his superiors (and the god of a man currently sharing his space)? Or maybe it's something else. Maybe he's afraid that the thing with Fir won't be an isolated incident. This guy may be attractive, but Jack’s no fool. Besides, he has been told before that he has a very punchable face.

He fiddles nervously with the buttons on the treadmill. _Answer the question, idiot_. “Um... I dunno. I'm good.”

Across the room, the man chuckles, bright and deep. Not mocking, but gentle, a way to lighten the mood, is what Jack thinks. Would like to think, anyways.

“Relax,” he says, and Jack glances up, begrudgingly hopeful. Lighten the mood, indeed, although the tenseness in Jack’s shoulders is probably here to stay. “I'm not here to kick you out, even though you were breaking cardinal treadmill law.”

“Oh,” Jack says weakly, embarrassingly relieved. He curls his toes and wishes with a passion that he had just kept his damn shoes on. “That's... good? Thanks.”

There's an awkward pause. The guy seems to be waiting for Jack to say something else, the inquisitive grin on his face not flagging for a moment as Jack wrestles with his thoughts, but Jack just can't bring himself to deliver. He holds his tongue beneath his teeth and picks through his brain for something to say, but nothing takes hold long enough for him to voice it. He scratches awkwardly at his bicep and tamps down a rising flight instinct. He's not sure what this guy wants, or how to give it to him, and he's so afraid of fucking something up that he has to fold his hands to ward off a tremble.

So, what. He's neurotic, and really doesn't want to get his ass beat on day one over one of his classic misplaced comments. Sue him.

His eyes settle on the guy’s hands. More specifically, on what he’s holding.

Jack feels his brow furrow, mouth curling into a frown. “That's —”

“Sorry, couldn't help myself,” He holds up Jack’s medic packet and shakes it gently. “Brings back memories. You've got your first injection day tomorrow, right?”

Jack nods dumbly.

“Rough shit. I don't envy you one bit,” The man says, the corner of his mouth twisting in sympathy as he looks down and flips mindlessly through the first few pages of Jack’s packet. “Though, let me tell ya, the second round’s the hardest. The initial flush hurts like a bitch, but it's not until they actually start altering your chemistry that things get dicey.”

Jack nods again, brows furrowed. The guy looks up from the page he was reading and their eyes meet for the briefest of seconds before Jack’s gaze drops back to his hands. A silence descends again, broken only by the faint fluttering of paper and the hum of the AC.

“Soooooooo. _John Morrison_ ,” the guy says, voice mused in a way that tells Jack that he’s reading aloud. “I'm guessing that's you?”

“Jack,” he corrects. “But, yeah. That's... that's me.”

“Jack,” the guy says. “I like it.”

Jack’s lips twitch upwards and his face heats a little, but the grin doesn't take hold. He can see the guy analyzing him from across the room, and he's not sure how it makes him feel. The slow slip of his gaze up and down Jack’s face should probably make him feel uncomfortable, _would_ usually, but instead it just makes Jack feel tingly. Kinda nervous, but not in a bad way, somehow. It's unnerving.

“C’mon, kid,” the guy finally huffs, leaning back against the wall. He opens his arms wide and gives Jack what he assumes — hopes — is meant to be a faux pout. “Lighten up. I don't bite.”

“You sure?” Jack says without thinking, voice more grumbly than intended at the inclusion of “kid”. He immediately grimaces at himself, worried he’s overstepped — freaking out a little bit because what if he went and pissed off the only guy thats been nice to him since he got here, what is _wrong_ with him —

Jack jumps at the bark of laughter that he receives in response. He looks up in disbelief, and the guy is smiling bright again, mirth glittering in his expression. Relief is light in Jack’s chest.

“Only if you want me to,” he promises.

A grin worms its way onto Jack’s face. Irrationally, he almost wants to hide it, to lift a hand and hide away any sign that he may be enjoying this conversation. A part of him is still nervous, still mistrustful; is telling him to take his things and leave and not look back, to not show emotion or engage in anything that could potentially end in upset. But a larger part of him, the part he likes, a part that he wants to believe, is telling him that this may be someone he could actually trust. Someone kind. If Fir can't be there, maybe —

No, no. Too fast, too soon. He locks those thoughts away and eats the fucking key.

“My name’s Gabriel,” Gabriel offers. “Gabriel Reyes, senior officer, ID number 0024. And, as of late, Official Interruptor of Jack Morrison’s weird barefoot workout.”

Gabriel, Gabriel, Gabriel. The name for his laugh lines, his easy grin, the clean swoop of his hair. Gabriel. It's _perfect_.

“You didn't really interrupt anything,” Jack admits, ignoring the happy wave of warmth that he feels at the sound of his name in Gabriel’s warm baritone, the air of familiarity that already seems to exist between them. _Gabriel_. Wasn't there an angel named Gabriel? “I was pretty much done.”

“Semantics,” Gabriel waves Jack’s packet dismissively, seemingly pleased by Jack’s response. Jack has a hard time seeing how anything he does could be seen as worthwhile to this incredible specimen of a human, but he's not about to start complaining. Verbally, at least. Mentally, there's no promises; he may be more than a little confused, and very disgruntled about it.

Jack steps off the treadmill and makes his way towards the bench, more than a little hesitant but trying to project confidence. It's difficult not to wither, to let his back curl, especially with the way that Gabe’s gaze tracks him as he crosses the room. And the closer that he gets to Gabriel, the more in disbelief he is over just how good looking the man is. It's enough to make anyone self-conscious. It makes Jack want to curl up into a ball and hide, but also keep staring and never stop.

He hates this. Dammit.

Jack stops when he reaches the bench, standing close enough to Gabriel that he could reach out and touch him if he wanted, and the man just looks up at him, smiling with such ease that Jack can't imagine him ever frowning. Suddenly, he has no idea what to do with his hands, confronted fully with the realization that yes, this is happening, this man named Gabriel who has the world’s most beautiful eyes is holding his med packet and has willingly endured Jack’s awkwardness for at least five minutes. Maybe more. What the fuck.

“I’m Jack,” he says and sticks out a hand. Foot, meet mouth. What a great opener.

“Yeah? I know,” Gabriel says, tilting his head and squinting a little bit in evident confusion. “Heard you the first time.”

“No, I mean —” Jack withdraws his hand immediately, his face hot and probably bright red as he remembers that, yes, he already told Gabriel his name. The man read it himself off of Jack’s stupid med packet. He wants to dig a hole and die in it, he's so embarrassed. This whole thing must be extremely overwhelming to his chronically riddled brain.

But Gabe is still smiling, if a little perplexed. A good sign.  
  
“I guess I just... wanted to introduce myself properly. From not fifteen feet away.” Jack lifts one shoulder in the approximation of a shrug. _Nice save_.

Gabriel laughs.

“Someone's got manners!” He crows, teasing. “Always gotta nail that introduction, huh?”

But then Gabriel is suddenly leaning closer, intent on Jack's face in a way that makes him want to take a step back. He squints, as if realizing something, and Jack tries not to squirm. “Wait, wait, wait — you’re _that_ Jack Morrison, aren't you? The kid that command won't stop chattering about. The golden boy.”

Jack freezes, deer-in-the-headlights. He hasn't heard that nickname since basic, and it still smarts, makes him tense up and want to hit something. His reaction seems to be all the confirmation that Gabriel needs, and he leans back again, satisfied and studying Jack with more of a single-minded interest than before.

“They call you a prodigy.” It's not a question. Gabriel isn't smiling anymore, and Jack isn't sure what to make of that. At least he's not frowning, despite the new furrow that's appeared between his well-kept brows.

Jack is cringing. He's never felt like a prodigy. In fact, before he joined the military, he had thought that the term was only applied to seven year old children with proficiencies in concerto. But after his scores in marksmanship and strategy had started skyrocketing, the whispers had started. Three years later, it appears they still have yet to stop.

He hates it. He didn't join the military knowing how to shoot, and he certainly didn't master his aim without weeks of putting in extra hours at the shooting range. Maybe he caught on a little faster than most, but he still attributes his skills to work — to eighteen-year-old Jack’s desperate attempts to find ways to prove himself.

He hates the fact that, three years later, there still exist rumors that say otherwise.

“I work hard,” Jack says dryly, a bit defensive. His foot taps impatiently. That flight response from before is reemerging. “That's it.”

“Well, shit. I bet,” Gabriel says, easy as that. “You wouldn't be here otherwise.”

It's like a dam breaks. Jack’s shoulders relax for the first time and he sighs, a deep, physiological breath that he hadn't realized he'd been holding in. Almost on reflex, he spins on his heel and drops like a deadweight down onto the bench beside Gabriel. Gabriel shifts in apparent surprise, his eyes still glued to Jack, but he doesn't move away, even though the distance at which they're sitting from each other is small enough to be considered friendly. It's nice. Jack tips his head back, resting the crown of his head against the wall, and lets his eyes slip shut.

“Thanks for your understanding,” is what Jack says moments later. He's not sure why; it just feels right. Gabriel snorts in amusement, which is a sound surprising enough that it has Jack cracking a smile in response.

“I don't put much stock in rumors. You should’a heard the shit people said about me when I got recruited. Real overblown. Well, most of them were.”

Gabriel’s voice is really nice. Jack’s smile grows.

“Nice humble-brag, dude. I get it, though.”

“Thanks for your understanding,” Gabriel mimics, and Jack, afraid that swatting is more of a second-friendship-date thing (is that what this is? Is he making a friend? God, he hopes so), settles on nudging Gabriel with his shoulder. The contact sends sparks zipping up and down Jack’s arm, but for once, they're not uncomfortable. He kind of likes it.

There's a brush of something against Jack’s wrist. He opens his eyes and looks down to see Gabriel handing him his med packet.

“Thanks,” Jack says, genuine. He takes it, grimaces at the cover page, and flips distractedly through the material. He can feel Gabriel’s eyes on him, still. Or maybe they're on the packet.

Wait. Why is Gabriel still here?

Ah, who cares. From this close, Gabriel smells like cinnamon, warmth, and old spice deodorant, and Jack finally feels somewhat comfortable around someone for the first time since he arrived at this weird, underground operation. Gabriel is here, willingly sharing his space — that's all that really matters.

“You should probably read through that,” Gabriel advises suddenly. “I mean, I didn't, but —”

Jack laughs. It actually startles him a bit, that he has the propensity to laugh out loud, here in this place where not so long ago he had felt so miserable. Gabriel is, somehow, actually making him feel a little bit better. A little bit hopeful, maybe.

Of course, all of that quickly dissipates when Jack’s finger catches on a page and the packet flips open to reveal the heading “RISKS”, bolded in all caps and followed by a long, long list of bullet points. He feels more than a little sobered when his eye catches the words “possibility of death”, typed in bold and placed right below the less intimidating “chance of nausea”.

Jack’s finger traces the line, hesitating when it passes over the word “death”. Just like that, he suddenly feels exhausted, bogged down by the weight of his future and the pain that he'll have to endure for its sake. He wants to take a shower. He wants to jump back on the treadmill and keep running until he can't anymore.

Gabriel is silent beside him, but Jack can feel him reading over his shoulder.

“Hell of a mood killer,” Gabriel comments. There's a deeper note in his voice that wasn't there before. Reluctance, maybe. Or pity. Disappointment?

Jack scrapes the page between the pads of his fingers and bites his lip.

Beside him, Gabriel shakes his head. “Nah. You'll be alright.”

Jack looks up, and Gabriel smiles at him, playfully reassuring. “Listen. You're a little scrawny —”

“I wasn't until I got _here_ ,” Jack complains.

“—But I'm sure the serum'll take.” Gabriel finishes with a grin, reaching over to decidedly revoke and shut Jack’s manual. He sets it down on the bench between them and dramatically dusts off his hands. “No point in getting worked up over the details.”

Gabriel stands up and stretches his arms above his head, as if he's been sitting for a while. His back pops loudly and he lets out a gruff, relieved sigh. Meanwhile, Jack is glued to the bench. His fingers itch to pick the packet back up and read through all the terrible things hidden within it, a morbid curiosity sparking the anxiety in his brain to terrible highs. He keeps glancing at the packet; Jack doesn't think he'll get much sleep tonight.

“Hey,” Gabriel says, coaxing. Jack looks up.

“You'll be fine, man. Seriously.”

Jack scoffs, trying to ignore just how relieved this virtual stranger’s reassurance makes him feel. “I bet you say that to all the boys.”

“Only the pretty ones.” There's that wink again, and Jack crinkles his nose in response to the blatant teasing. Gabriel laughs out loud at his expression, though, which is nice. Makes the discomfort and the rush of heat to his face that he experiences at being called “pretty” worth it.

Gabriel’s laughter dies down into chuckles, and they're watching each other. Jack usually hates eye contact, keeps his gaze low or dancing over cheekbones, but this time he can't look away. Gabriel’s gaze, so bold and unwavering, has him locked in and searching those dark brown eyes desperately for something that he can't actually name.

He's not sure if he finds it or not.

“Find me if you survive, okay?” Gabriel’s voice says he's joking, but the offer is genuine. His expression is open, kind in such a way that it makes Jack’s chest actually hurt. His laugh lines are doing things to Jack’s heart that are entirely unfamiliar. “I'll buy you a drink.”

He holds out a hand to Jack, and when Jack takes it, Gabriel pulls him off the bench and to his feet. His palm is calloused and warm. His fingers make Jack’s look like sticks.

If Jack holds on for a little longer than he should, neither of them mention it. “That sounds nice,” Jack says.

Gabriel squeezes his hand.

And for a second, for _just_ a second, Jack forgets all about the packet and the terrible things within.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't run barefoot on treadmills, kids. That shit hurted
> 
> This chapter's title inspired by the song Save Yourself by Kaleo! It's one of my favorite R76 songs, so expect more chapters named after it in the future.
> 
> Questions, comments, concerns, critiques? hmu 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading! See ya soon


	4. swallow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack gets more injections and thinks too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can ya'll believe that Jack's middle name is Francis? I feel so blessed. Thank you, Michael Chu, for this glorious gift of lore.
> 
> Shorter chapter this time around 'cause the next one is pretty hefty. With that in mind, please enjoy this little mess of introspection and ouchies.

The first round of shots hurts, as Jack had been previously forewarned, like a bitch.

Every muscle aches like he's been latched to a table and stretched limb from limb; he feels elongated and detached from his bones. His head pounds with a fervor that is usually reserved for particularly unpleasant hangovers — or the flu. He feels cold and hot all at once.

 _Shit_ , Jack thinks as he limps back to his dorm, cradling an athletic-tape-swabbed arm to his chest and fighting to keep his eyes from drifting shut;  _maybe I do have the flu_.

He arrives at 201 and manages to open the door with minimal amounts of fumbling. The smell is just as much an assault on his nose as it was the day previous, but he's so wiped he's having a hard time caring.

Jack kicks an empty can — _is that beer? How the fuck_ — out of his way and, amazingly, makes it to his bed without tripping. He flops down face first and greedily inhales the smell of clean sheets (courtesy of a late night trip to the laundry room). He's managed to rid his section of the room of garbage, and tidied up enough that he can at least stand to sleep there.

The whole room could use a good airing out, that's for sure — but the way that Fir had reacted when he had discovered Jack’s washing of his dirty towel hoard tells Jack that deep cleaning is something he can only dream of.

He’ll request a transfer. A new roommate, a new mentor. Whatever. Eventually.

For now, he's exhausted. Within minutes of hitting his mattress, he feels heavy as lead. Sleep crashes over him like a tidal wave, and just like that, he's out for the count, bruised arm dangling over the side of his bed and face smashed into his pillow.

—

It's been almost a week, and Jack hasn't seen Gabriel anywhere. The base is huge, but there's only so many places that a soldier can spend time — the rec rooms, the training centers, the dining halls. Jack doesn't really frequent any of those places, save for his late night workouts, but he never sees Gabriel even in passing.

He's not ashamed to admit to himself that he's _looking_. He wants to see Gabriel again in the metaphorical light of day; he wants to know who he is, what he does in his free time. He catches himself looking over his shoulder more often than usual, investigating shapes that trigger his attention from the corners of his eyes. Looking.

Maybe it's strange, his fixation on this one man who he barely knows, but Jack can't help it. Their meeting had been uncomfortable and stagnant, but it had also been something else; Jack wouldn't go so far as to say _fated,_ no way, but it had felt right. It had felt warm.

He just wants to see him again.

There's a mandatory roundup in one of the bigger rec rooms. It's packed wall to wall with recruits, some of them senior officers and some sporting faces that Jack remembers from initiation. Jack searches, scans every incoming face with distracted interest, but he doesn't find Gabriel.

Of course. Nothing is ever that easy.

Jack has shoved himself into a corner, trying to avoid physical contact as best he can. He's got a cup of something that smells like lemonade in his hand and he's doing his best to drown out the boring tones of his hall’s RA.

Fir sits on a partially collapsed couch across the room, spread out so wide that it's a wonder anyone else can fit beside him. He glances up at the guy perched on the armrest beside him and mutters something that makes them both snicker.

Jack sips his drink, brow twitching in irritation, and cringes at how watered down it tastes. His grandma would spit in this lemonade and use it to kill the dandelions.

He had ventured to ask Fir about Gabriel after several days of fruitless searching. It had been uncomfortable, but Jack had been at the end of his rope, out of ideas as to where Gabriel could possibly be, and starting to wonder if he was a figure of his imagination.

Fir had begrudgingly answered his build-up questions — simple inquiries about meaningless names and senior officers — but at the mention of Gabriel Reyes, Fir had gotten angry. Jack still isn't sure how to decipher Fir’s reaction — the obvious raise in tension and the shoe thrown at his head at the mention of Soldier 24.

At least now he knows that Gabriel Reyes is real. Gabriel Reyes is real, and Fir doesn’t like to be asked questions. Two learning experiences for the price of one cluster headache.

Fir glances back and Jack realizes that he's been glaring at the back of his roommate’s sandy blond head. He looks down into his lemonade, at the whirling sugary dregs at the bottom of his paper cup, and feels Fir staring daggers into his face. The RA snaps at him to pay attention and Fir snaps something back.

Just a usual day. Jack sips his lemonade and thinks about Gabriel, and tries not to glare too hard at his bitch roommate.

He wonders absently what Gabriel would do if he were here. Would he cram himself into one of the soft couches, enjoying the closeness of the people sitting beside him? Would he sit on a counter and let his legs dangle as he helped himself to the lemonade dispenser? Would he stand in the back, arms crossed and leaning up against the wall, listening begrudgingly to the stagnant tones of the RA?

Would he stand with Jack?

The meeting ends with Jack still flipping absently through nonsense scenarios. He knows that his ideas of who Gabriel is, who he truly is, are all fabrications. He has no idea if Gabriel is as open as he had been beneath the harshness of the gym lights. He probably isn't.

Jack really needs more friends.

Jack crushes his lemonade cup and tosses it into a waste bin as he leaves the room.

No harm in wondering, is what he figures. No harm at all.

—  
  
The second round of shots is worse.  
  
Much, much worse.

Jack lays on his cot in the med bay, head swimming and eyes half lidded as he stares at the ceiling. He's been nauseous for hours, though it feels more like days. He feels flayed, like his skin is slowly being turned inside out and scraped raw. His left arm has gone completely numb, and the place where the IV sticks into his skin is purpling. He can feel his heart beating in his fingertips.

He swallows back the saliva that keeps threatening to run down his chin and thinks that this would probably be a really good form of torture.

At 3:32 AM, Jack wakes up to the sound of screams. The sound of a gurney rushing down the hall adjacent to his room is unmistakable; the harrowing sounds of pain are even more distinct. They echo through the halls and resonate like a harmony against the pounding in Jack’s head.

The haze of sleep that Jack had fallen into quickly peels away, and he slides himself up higher on his pillow, ignoring the twinge in his right elbow.

Between Jack and the door, unbothered by the screams ringing in the hall, a nurse stands at Jack’s beside. As Jack sits up, he scribbles something on his clipboard and turns away to poke around on the nearby medical tray.

Jack asks him what's going on, and he just shakes his head. Before Jack can wake up enough to actually demand some answers, he injects something into Jack’s IV that makes everything go a little fuzzy. Time becomes liquid. The ceiling spins.

Jack doesn’t remember falling asleep again after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jack sure does a lot of sleeping for a guy in a top secret super soldier program (AKA I know nothing about the military. My bad). 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this little not-quite-a-filler chapter! Next one will be up very soon, hopefully. I've gotta sit down and edit it... wish me luck fam
> 
> See you soon!


	5. fade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack wrestles with a banana. Jack gets sick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 10k, babey. We poppin BIG bottles tonight.
> 
> Trigger warning for vomit! It doesn't get too descriptive, but it's still there. 
> 
> Happy reading!

After 24 hours, Jack is given the all-clear, and is sent back to his dorm with a small bottle of Ondansetron and strict instructions to stay hydrated and get some sleep. He feels like he's been hit by a truck, but he's glad to be out of the med bay: especially after he finds out that he's one of only four recruits being released on time.

Four out of thirty. Jack wishes the odds were a little brighter.

The halls are quiet, lined with voices that echo from distant spaces. Jack has no idea what time it is. Everything feels kind of floaty, like he’s walking through jelly. His legs are tired.

He stops by the canteen before heading to his room. He’s got a weird feeling in his stomach that he thinks is hunger, so he grabs a banana and a handful of granola bars from one of the little carts by the door and books it. The banana is delicious, but for some reason he has to stop and spit it out in one of the common rooms.

Luckily no one is there to witness him spitting a mouthful of chewed-up banana into the garbage. Jack stares at the mush, confused, and then back at the banana, silently debating.

Jack’s not sure what just happened. His stomach still feels strange, but not in a way that Jack really understands. He wouldn't classify the feeling as nausea. It's more of a slow unease; a creeping heat that keeps traveling up his throat and making his mouth water.

He takes another careful bite and chews slowly, monitoring the movements of his own stomach. He swallows that one successfully, and then the next, but the final one ends up beside the first in the trash.

“Dammit,” Jack mutters, grimacing.  
  
He tosses the peel in besides the wasted mouthfuls and tries a granola bar.

The one he picks tastes like blueberry, and it crumbles nicely on his tongue. He crams half of it in his mouth, chews, and then impulsively spits it out with nary a gag.

He has no idea what's going on, but it probably isn't good. He gives up, wrapping the granola bar up for later and stuffing it into his pocket, and makes sure to turn the lights off when he leaves.

The screams from last night are sticking with him. Every time Jack remembers them, his body reacts as it usually does to intrusive thoughts and his hands convulse into little twitches. The memories manifest into physical sensations that feel like ants crawling over his skin, like multiple pin pricks against the base of his skill: he has to shut his eyes and physically will the shuddering feeling from his muscles.

It definitely doesn't help the weird feeling in his stomach, which he’s starting to suspect is a new, slower-onset kind of nausea. He takes maybe more of his anti-nausea pills than he should when he finally arrives back at his dorm.

Jack stashes his granola bars beneath the end of his mattress with the rest of his stolen food, all little things squirreled away just in case he doesn't have the gumption to go eat with everyone else (which, so far, has been always), before crashing into his bed. He barely has time to kick off his shoes before he’s out, head swallowed by his pillow and the rest of him sinking, aching and relieved, into the mattress.

—

Jack wakes up, sweaty and shaking, some odd hours later. The glowing numbers of the digital clock on his bedside table tell him it’s some time in the early AM’s. Jack shivers and sits up, groaning as he's wracked with a sudden wave of achy pain. It spreads from his chest outwards, and Jack makes it to the bathroom seconds before the discomfort settles in the pit of his stomach.

He usually hates vomiting, but this time Jack welcomes the episode — anything to stop feeling like he’s slowly dissolving. He empties the sparse contents of his stomach into the toilet bowl and then collapses onto the seat, trying desperately not to inhale the smells of bile and piss. His arms feel like they weight a ton; the cool porcelain feels like heaven against his cheek.

Jack just lays there for a while, enjoying the brief post-vomit rush of endorphins and the feeling of not being nauseous, before crawling to his feet and grabbing his ondansetron pill bottle from where he'd wisely placed it on the sink. Taking the little pill is difficult, but he gets it down without too much gagging. At least the tap water doesn't taste too bad.

Unfortunately, he can't give the same favorable reaction for his appearance. Jack catches a look at himself as he's wiping water from his chin, and he can't help but grimace at what he sees. Bloodshot eyes, gaunt cheekbones, a sickly redness streaking his water lines. Deep purple bags. Cracked lips.

Jack’s never considered himself to be a particularly vain person, but right now, staring himself down in the dirty cracked mirror, he looks fucking _terrible_. It’s like he's examining a reanimated corpse, minus the decaying bits. He honestly looks like he died three days ago, and the downy muss of his pale blond hair only adds to the hospice look. He almost doesn't recognize himself.

Jack turns away and sinks to the floor. He rests his head back against the wall and his eyes slide shut.

What the fuck is he doing here.

Just as Jack’s nausea is beginning to plateau, his ass becoming sore from sitting on the hard tile of the bathroom floor, a banging on the bathroom door wakes him from his brooding. The jolting sound makes him jump and reawakens his nausea, churning slow circles in the tenseness of his gut.

Jack wants to cry a little bit.

“I've got morning training,” Fir shouts through the door. It's muffed, but he sounds pissed. A few more bangs echo from the door before Jack can respond.

“Sorry.” Jack coughs against the roughness in his throat. “Sorry, I'm not feeling well, can you —”

“Hell, no.” The door rattles, and then Fir throws it open, his expression stormy and approaching the limits of what Jack would consider murderous. Fir steps across the linoleum and hauls Jack to his feet like he weighs close to nothing, shoving him against the wall so that he doesn't crumble back down to the floor.

“What the fuck —” Jack grabs at Fir’s hands where they fist in this shirt, feeling a little murderous himself as his gut roils in protest at the rough treatment.

“Go use the communal bathrooms,” Fir spits, “I’m not dealing with vomit in my fucking room.”

Jack is thrown out of the bathroom. He stumbles several steps, nearby slipping when his foot catches on a discarded shirt, and the light from the bathroom vanishes as the door shuts in his face.

Just like that, Jack is abandoned in the dark of his dorm room, feeling frustrated and lost and like he's gonna puke again very, very soon.

There's no point in fighting with his asshole of a roommate, especially not when the guy has obvious anger issues and is packing more than fifty pounds on Jack. So Jack grabs his med packet and a half-full water bottle from his nightstand and throws on a pair of standard issue sweatpants before stumbling as fast as he can out of his dorm and down the hall to the communal restrooms.

At least they aren't hard to find.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cut the chapter in half again.... I'm sorry. I think it's easier to stay motivated with little chapters instead of huge ones? Who knows - I'm still tryna figure this whole writing thing out.
> 
> Next part coming soon? Tomorrow? Maybe. Who knows? Not me!
> 
> Until then, Happy October! As always, thanks for reading!


	6. stomach it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack gets sick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I lost my soul in your skintones._   
>  _-Stomach It by Crywolf_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> #TW for vomit

The restroom is blessedly empty, likely thanks to the early hour of Jack’s torture. Jack chooses a stall at random and barely manages to lock the door behind him before the contents of his stomach make a reappearance. He flushes the toilet after, arms draped over the seat and his breathing slowly evening out. He simultaneously regrets not puking on Fir’s unmade bed and wonders once again what the _fuck_ he's doing here.

He never expected the SEP to be some glorious affair, no way — not when he had heard all the rumors about human experimentation and super soldiers. He knew it would be painful, he knew it would be difficult. Jack also hadn't, however, expected that he would find himself sitting on cold bathroom tiles, in a tiny-ass stall, and feeling utterly abandoned by his roommate as he puked his guts out and nursed the world’s worst headache.

Jack spits into the toilet and coughs once, twice. He’s got chills now, running in uncomfortable rivulets up and down the aching stretch of his spine. It's fucking _freezing_ in here. His teeth ache. He’s lived through worse, is what he tells himself as he takes a small sip of water from his water bottle, swishes it around in his mouth, and spits it out. He's lived through worse pain, worse headaches, worse sicknesses.

The difference, he thinks as he once again heaves into the toilet, is that he usually had someone by his side helping him through it. His mom, a friend, a nurse.

He's alone now. He's completely alone, sitting on the floor in a cramped bathroom stall, with no idea of what time it is or just how long he's been here. He's cold as fuck, he feels absolutely miserable, and he's alone.

Not his best Tuesday.

Time passes in a crawl, measurable only by the rise and fall of Jack’s chest and by the creeping chill that spreads from the floor up into his limbs. After a while, Jack manages to wedge himself between the toilet and the wall, head tipped back and knees pulled in. He remembers something about tongues and nausea, but not how the two relate to one another. He keeps alternating between opening his eyes and closing them. In a strange way, during a long break between heave sessions, Jack dozes.

He keeps wondering how the many pathways of his life cumulated into this one. He's never been much of a believer in karma, but there's a part of him that wonders what the hell he ever did to deserve this. It’s seemed for a while like bad shit is attracted to him, like nothing in his life can ever go smoothly. A guy’s gotta wonder if there's some sort of cosmic influence in the whole thing.

In his minds eye, heat flashes, red and abrupt. The chill of the bathroom dissolves against the ragged shivers of Jack’s skin. Fear spikes in his throat.

Jack squeezes his eyes shut tight and tries to forget.

The opening of the bathroom door pulls him from the lull. Gentle footsteps, muffled by something soft, echo over the tiles, registering just past the pounding between Jack’s ears. Usually, he would probably be mortified; right now, he can't really bring himself to care.

Jack cracks open his eyes and, his vision foggy, watches the space between the stall door and the floor.

One of the sinks turns on. Jack listens to the sounds of splashing water, a bottle snapping open, a towel unfurling. None of the sounds being particularly unpleasant, the din is a nice distraction. Jack mentally maps out the stranger’s actions and lets his eyes close once more.

Some time later, the water clicks off. It may have been minutes or hours — minutes, probably, but every second that Jack spends wallowing in this uncomfortable agony feels like a lifetime — but it's right on time for Jack to tip himself over onto the toilet seat and dry heave into the bowl. He grips the toilet and gasps against the stabs of pain in his empty stomach, body rebelling against something that doesn't exist.

His foot accidentally catches against his water bottle. It hits the ground with an unpleasant _klang_ , metal hitting bathroom tile, and rolls off somewhere. Jack finds he doesn't care, aside from the full body flinch that results from the unpleasant sound. He hurts too much, he's too uncomfortable. He wouldn't drink water right now even if he could.

He spits and shudders, barely managing to keep himself from collapsing down onto the toilet seat, when a gentle knock sounds against the door of his claimed stall.

“Occupied,” he coughs, wiping his mouth with the back of a hand as he paws at the sensor to flush the toilet.

“Everything okay in there?” The voice is muffled by both the door and the sound of spinning water, but it still somehow manages to sound familiar. Jack hazards a glance over his shoulder. Bright red slippers poke out beneath the stall door.

Definitely not Fir. Besides, the voice is deeper and much softer than his bullheaded roommate’s. Music to Jack’s ears.

“I hope so,” Jack answers honestly, carefully pushing away from the toilet to wedge himself back up against the wall. His water bottle is long gone, likely rolled off somewhere just out of sight. He coughs and gropes blindly for his manual, dropped on the floor and kicked into the space on the other side of the toilet. “I think it's just a side effect —”

“Jack?”

Jack snaps to attention at the sound of his name. The voice is hesitant, but the bright red slippers shuffle a little closer. The voice sounds concerned, and so frustratingly familiar. “Is that you?”

It clicks.

“Gabriel,” Jack breathes. Of all people —

Jack groans and scrubs a hand over his face. Now he's embarrassed. After all this time, to run into Gabriel _now_. It's too much.

“I'm fine, just — suffering some consequences,” Jack chuckles a little at his own expense, partly out of discomfort and partly out of shame. It's a weak sound, frail and reedy, and, honestly, very pathetic. Jack clears his throat. “I'll be alright, I think it's finally passing.”

A blatant lie. He actually gags as he's saying it.

“Why aren’t you in your own bathroom?” Gabriel asks, his tone firm and expectant of an answer. He sounds very motherly; Jack can practically see him through the stall door, hands on his hips and expression stormy. Funny.

“Why aren't _you_ in your dorm bathroom?” Jack challenges. He sounds much less firm and authoritative. Not so funny.

Gabriel sighs and answers him nonetheless, an eye roll evident in his tone.

“Hot water isn’t working. _Why aren’t you in your own bathroom_?”

Jack bites his lip and doesn't answer. Because, well. What would he say? That he got kicked out of his own dorm? No way. Getting caught puking his guts out in the communal bathroom is already bad enough.

Because Gabriel may seem nice, and Jack may have all sorts of fantasies about their supposed compatibility, but for all Jack knows, Gabriel is just waiting for him to show a moment of weakness. One slip up, and it's over; Gabriel’s reported him to the med staff, and Jack gets decommissioned just like that. Sent back to Indiana with a consolation check and a pat on the back. Fir hates him for no reason — maybe all these guys are the same way. Power-hungry and scrambling to drag everyone else beneath them.

Wouldn't be the first time that Jack’s met guys like that. Probably wouldn't be the last.

Gabriel is silent throughout Jack’s inner monologue, but his slippered feet are shuffling in a way that tells Jack that he's getting impatient.

“Jack,” Gabriel says through the door, and his voice reflects a good bit of tension. “You with me? Please don't die in the public bathroom.”

“I'm fine.” Jack sounds maybe a little too defensive, but his thoughts are bouncing around in his skull, screaming at him to _buck up, straighten your back, don't show any more signs of weakness to this handsome guy that you barely know_ —

Of course, as his _shit_ _luck_ would have it, his body decides that it's the perfect time to send him reeling back to the toilet, and he gags against a string of saliva as, once again, he vomits up nothing but pain.

This one stings like a bitch, his back and stomach spasming in unison and turning Jack’s body into a burning coil of agony. He gasps audibly as his diaphragm kicks in his chest. He feels like he's gonna cry.

Outside the stall, Gabriel curses. There's another muttered word or two, a distinctive rattle and click, and then a firm hand is pressed against Jack’s upper back. Gabriel whispers nonsense to Jack as he heaves again, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes as his stomach fight to bring up something that just isn't there, and it _hurts so fucking bad_ —

A hand slips around and presses, cool and purposeful, against Jack’s forehead, holding back what little hair Jack has from the sweaty stickiness of his skin. It can't be pleasant being anywhere _near_ Jack — he probably smells like vomit and sweat and all things gross — but still, Gabriel hushes Jack and runs gentle circles into his back. He holds him close even as Jack slowly leans away from the toilet, spits one last time into the bowl, and leans back onto his ankles. Hero’s pose.

Jack doesn't feel like much of a hero right now.

“Let it out,” Gabriel murmurs, and Jack realizes with a start that he's crying silently, tears dripping slow and hot down his cheeks. He sniffles as a shudder wracks, glacial and agonizing, through his limbs.

Gabriel hums into the space between them. His voice is soft and achingly gentle, and he holds Jack like he's something to be careful with.

It's unfamiliar. It's surprising. It's _so nice,_ and the gentleness, the pure kindness of the gesture, suddenly becomes overwhelming. Jack sobs, cracked open; the floodgates draw up, as sure and resolute as the hand on Jack’s back. Days of discomfort, misery, pain, frustration, all run in rivers down his cheeks. For the first time in a long time, Jack lets himself cry, ensnared in the arms of this kind, beautiful man that he barely even knows.

Through it all, Gabriel just... holds him. No expectations, no regulations, no stipulations. Despite being no more than two virtual strangers shoved into a bathroom stall, Gabriel leans over Jack, creating an umbrella of warmth and safety, and holds him up against his broad chest. He hums, soft and lovely. They rock oh-so-gently from side to side.

Jack’s sobs slowly die into muted, shaky inhales and exhales. His face is uncomfortably wet. Jack grabs the bottom of his shirt to lift it to his face, but he’s interrupted the bulk of Gabriel’s towel as it's shoved into his hands. It's charcoal gray, lightly damp but very soft.

Jack takes it and presses it to his face, inhaling deeply despite his post-cry stuffy nose, and doesn't fight it when Gabriel takes hold of his shoulders and slowly eases him backwards.

“Lay back,” Gabriel says.

Jack’s head is carefully pillowed upon what feel like very firm thighs. Any other time, he would probably be losing his mind — but now, right now, all he can focus on is his stomach and how confused he is by this whole thing. His mind is warring and loud, utterly torn between utter perplexity and the base, animal need for _touch, now, please_.

“Relax,” Gabriel orders. When Jack doesn't comply, Gabriel mutters something that Jack doesn't understand and a calloused hand begins to scrub gently against his scalp.

Jack melts. He leans into the touch with an unconcealed fervor, eliciting a quiet sigh from himself and a responding chuckle from Gabriel.

Gabriel’s towel smells like citrus. His hands are godly where they tangle in Jack’s hair.

“There we go,” Gabriel says, a smile in his voice as the tension begins to bleed from Jack’s shoulders. Jack tingles a little from the praise, but mostly from the gentle hand as it works through his hair.

Gabriel’s other hand moves to pry one of Jack’s away from the towel. Jack reluctantly unknots his fingers from the soft material. Gabriel stops stroking Jack’s hair and takes hold of Jack’s right arm with both hands, lifting it slightly up above Jack’s head.

Gabriel positions his hands along Jack’s forearm and starts rubbing firm, concentrated circles into his skin. Jack has only a few moments to be confused, mourning the loss of Gabriel’s hand in his hair, before his quietly lurking nausea starts leaking from his body. Jack gasps and then moans in relief. Gabriel hums above him.

“That helping?”

Jack nods, and though his face is still more or less hidden by the towel, he thinks that Gabriel gets the message.

After a few minutes, Gabriel moves to the other arm, applying the same weird massage to his inner forearm. Jack wants to cry again from how good it feels to not be nauseous. He still aches something fierce, all bent out of shape from his hours of vomit-induced spasms and the hard surface of the floor beneath his back, but he finally feels somewhat peaceful. Safe, even.

The towel on his face is beginning to become uncomfortable, heating up from Jack’s breaths and becoming sweaty rather than water-damp, but Jack still feels his eyes drifting shut, sleep threatening to take hold of his senses.

There's that feeling of falling, of the ground dropping out from below his feet. But then Jack’s breath hitches and the floor returns.

Jack blinks away his exhaustion. With his free hand, he pulls the towel off of his face and looks up, for the first time, at Gabriel. The man leans above him, focused intently on his work, and murmuring softly to himself about pressure points. He smells really good, dressed in the SEP common-issue sweatshirt and sporting a gray knit beanie.

Citrus, soap, and cinnamon. Gabriel Reyes.

Jack shifts in his lap to look at him better, and Gabriel breaks some of his concentration to glance down. His expression, intense with focus, softens the moment their eyes meet.

“Feeling better?”

Jack swallows thickly. Gabriel’s eyes, dark and just as gentle as his hands, trap his own lighter ones within their depths. He slowly lowers Jack’s arm to the floor.

“Much,” Jack rasps, and he manages a creaky alteration of a smile. “Thank you.”

Jack moves to sit up, gritting his teeth as his stomach immediately tightens in response, but before he can get very far Gabriel is hissing in protest and pushing him back down.

“You want to undo all my hard work?” Gabriel scolds, scooping up Jack’s left arm and quickly resuming his massage. His fingers knead into Jack’s flesh with a sureness that is both motherly and very, very intimate. Comfortable. “Stay down for a little bit or it won't work. Idiot.”

Jack obeys easily enough, enjoying the ministrations on his arm and, moreso, the immediate ease that it triggers in his still-sensitive gut. He may also like looking at Gabriel. He may also like it very much.

Jack stares up at Gabriel, who has returned his full attention to the spot on Jack’s arm, and takes the time to map out his face.

Forehead, nose, lips, chin. Eyes, half-lidded. Brow, furrowed in concentration. His beard is a little messy, well-kept but sleep-mussed. Jack wants to run his fingers through it, smooth down the short strands. His chest warms at the thought.

He likes the beanie. It makes Gabriel more real, somehow, crammed down over his curls. One spills out, dark and soft against Gabriel’s forehead.

Without thinking too much about it, Jack lifts his free hand to poke Gabriel’s cheek. Gabriel grins and shakes off the offending hand, looking down at Jack again with one brow raised. There's a little scar etched into the skin of his left eyebrow.

“What's up?” Gabriel asks, voice rough.

“Why are you doing this?” Jack returns, soft and suddenly a little insecure.

Gabriel’s smile dims a little bit, and he looks away, expression distant. The circling pressure on Jack’s arm lessens for a brief moment as Gabriel appears transported, confronted with some memory or otherwise that, prompted by Jack’s inquiry, momentarily takes him elsewhere.

Jack’s heartbeat jumps. Should he not have asked? Did he ruin this? Why does Gabriel suddenly look so lost?

But the pressure increases almost immediately, the lapse becoming just a tick in motion, and Gabriel physically shakes off whatever had taken hold of him. As he refocuses back on Jack and his arm, his eyes are clear.

“I've been where you are. That's all.”

“On the floor of the communal bathroom puking your guts out?” Jack presses. Gabriel laughs and Jack’s heart skips at the sound.

“Not quite. Had my own bathroom for that. But otherwise, yeah. On the floor puking my guts out is a pretty good descriptor.”

Gabriel looks a little distant again, maybe a little sad. It makes Jack regret pushing him, even if the push was gentle. He likes Gabriel focused much better than he likes him far away.

He lifts a hand to poke Gabriel again. This time, Gabriel catches his wrist and holds it.

“I was one of the first round of recruits,” He begins slowly, as though mapping out each word before he speaks it. Almost subconsciously, Gabriel releases Jack’s arm to focus on his captured hand, slowly turning it back and forth and rubbing nonsense into the lines of Jack’s palm.

“We didn't have senior officers to tell us what to do, that what we were experiencing was as expected. Because it was new, you know? Nothing was expected. And, hell, I thought that I was dying. Certainly felt that way.”

Gabriel sighs. Jack’s hand tingles as Gabriel catches a ticklish spot on the skin between his thumb and pointer finger.

“I was terrified. Absolutely fucking _terrified_. I honest to God thought that I was gonna die, and that they were gonna find me with my head in a toilet, naked on the bathroom floor.”

Jack huffs a laugh.

“Why were you naked?”

“Hush,” Gabriel scolds, squeezing his hand firmly. “Quiet, rookie. Daddy’s talking.”

Now it's Jack’s turn to roll his eyes. He quiets nonetheless, studying the contrast of Gabriel’s hand to his own. Gabriel lines up their hands palm to palm, laces their fingers, and then releases Jack’s hand. It slips downward, coming to rest on Jack’s chest.

Jack closes his fist and tries, stupidly, to keep the warmth of Gabriel’s hands trapped within his palm.

“Long story short,” Gabriel says, “I got through it. Took a while, and it felt like I had been boiled alive twice, but I did. And I kinda made this decision that I wasn't gonna let anyone else feel as... _alone_ as I did then. Not if I could help it.”

Gabriel’s voice, gone quiet by the last few words, feels intimate where it resonates in the space between them. Jack suddenly feels overwhelmed, and is almost taken aback by the wave of fury that settles in his chest.

The thought of Gabriel, this man who is holding Jack like he matters more than anything else in the world, going through such pain alone, is enough to set Jack awash with anger. He wishes, irrationally, that he could have been there. The anger, like fireworks in his lungs, pops and dies quickly, and Jack is left with nothing but grief; grief for this man he barely knows, and grief for the pain that they've both endured.

That they're going to endure.

“Thank you,” is all that Jack can think so say. His voice is thick and slurred, choked a bit with conflicting feelings and phlegm, but the message seems to reach Gabriel anyways.

And Gabriel, so beautiful and weary, shakes off the gratitude and offers Jack a smile that tears him in two.

“Don't mention it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idk when this became a sickfic, but here we are. ALSO, the overwatch fandom can pry kind!Gabe from my cold, dead hands. He may not always be a gentle person, but anyone who says that gabe is mean is a fool and I'm not having it.
> 
> Anyways. WOW it feels good to finally post this.... I hope ya'll enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Next cycle of chapters will probably start in a couple days, and after those, we move into angst city. Get hyped. 
> 
> A quick thank you to everyone for all the amazing comments and kudos that I've received on my last few chapters! You keep me motivated. For that, I am grateful. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading! See ya soon :)


	7. spoons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack gets dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spaghetti is the best comfort food.

The night before the third round of shots, Jack dreams of Indiana.

The sky is blue and clear, spotted with clouds that float lazily overhead. Crickets hum songs in the near distance; the sound of a distant laugh drifts through the fields. It smells like home.

Jack stands amidst the northern treeline of his family’s farm, the sun hot and flickering against his back where it pokes through the trees. One hand floats, aimless, by his side; the other is held tightly by a gentle, calloused hand, the owner of which Jack doesn't know. But he does, intimately. He squeezes the hand and smiles at the responding pressure.

Peace is warm in his chest, in his throat. His mother’s favorite chair creaks childhood songs against the old wood of the porch. Jack hears his father chuckle; his parents hold each other tight, and they sway to the breeze and to the age-old music of their home.

And then Jack is the one dancing, face tucked snugly in the crook of a warm neck. He inhales, and it smells like cinnamon. Like summer warmth on a gentle breeze. He feels overwhelmed with longing, but his heart is quiet, at rest. At peace.

“Why me?” Jack wants to ask, but his voice is silent when he tries to speak. “Why me?”

Jack pulls away to look at the face of the man holding him with such care. He smiles, words hovering on his lips, but his world is suddenly jarred with pain. Everything is fuzzy, he can't see who-

The world bleeds, transformed with red. The scene melts. Jack snaps awake.

—

“Want to tell me why your nose is busted, Mr. Morrison?”

It's been three weeks since Jack’s injection cycles began, a full thirteen days since his incident in the communal bathroom. The nausea has finally stripped from his system, and Jack is ready to actually begin the real meat of the SEP — the physical enhancements.

He's still a bit surprised that they haven't started bulking him up already. Jack is by no means skinny, but he's definitely not _jacked_  either — especially not compared to the senior officers of the SEP. He’d been more than a bit disappointed upon discovering that his second round of shots was more of a super vaccine than anything else. All that pain over a flu shot.

‘Health over muscle mass,’ as his medic had explained, giving him a sympathetic pat at the look of clear disbelief on Jack’s face (day three of vomiting had been when he broke and sought medical help, sure that something was wrong with him; they'd given him some fluids, scolded him for not properly reading his debrief packet, and sent him back to his dorm with some fresh painkillers).

Jack had gone back to his dorm and poured over his med packet for hours, picking through terms like “stem cells” and “fibroblasts” and “epigenetic manipulation.” All he had really understood was that his healing factor was changing, genes warping under the stress of whatever mutagenic substance had been mixed up in his serum.

So, better healing, in concept. He’ll believe it when he sees it. Either way, his body had definitely not liked the genetic makeup of its tissues being basically rewritten in the space of a week.

Back in the present, sitting on a cot and shivering beneath the blasting AC, Jack grumbles, scratching at the back of his neck.

“Tripped.”

The truth is a little bit more complicated. Jack certainly hadn't expected to have his alarm clock lobbed at his head at 5 AM, but that's just how badly things with Fir have escalated.

The guy is a livewire, full of energy and anger and with seemingly nowhere to put it, and Jack’s very existence seems to fray his edges. Everything sets him off. Jack’s incessant cleaning of the bathroom mirror, his late night workouts, even the sound of his _breathing_ ; anything and everything that Jack does will send Fir into a rage. He wasn't physical at first, just loud and intrusive, but. Well. Insults turned to shoves turned to... flying alarm clocks.

The medic doesn't pry, and that's all that matters. She just gives some offhand comment about watching his feet and keeps working on Jack’s aching face.

Jack winces as the medic finishes setting his nose. She sticks something that looks like a thick syringe against the rapidly-purpling bridge; the injection hisses as multiple prickles stick into his skin. It stings, but the relief is immediate; it's like he can feel the bone knit back together. It's probably a bionic liquid of some sort. That would explain the sensation of rapid mending.

The medic gently taps at the spot where the break is — was? — and hums, satisfied.

“Break is all healed up. You'll still have bruising, and it'll still hurt for a few days, but you should be fine to continue with your injections today.”

Bionic liquid, indeed.

_The wonders of modern technology._

“That’s good,” Jack sighs. “Thanks.”

“Don't thank me yet. I'm not quite sure how the injections will affect your healing; if you get a nasty calcium deposit over the break, don't be too surprised,” the medic cautions, turning away from Jack to replace the empty syringe with a new one. This one is labeled, and she peels a clear sticker off from its base and reads the tiny print typed across its surface.

“Okay,” she says, still reading. “Okay. Looks like you're getting the typical package. Muscle enhancements, increased healing factor, all that. And —” She squints, “Something about ‘sensory tuning’.”

Jack is suddenly sent back to his psych evaluation, to the psychologist’s red- pen littered sheet and the shrug in his voice when he had said ‘’maybe”. This is Jack’s maybe, and it's about to be injected into him in the form of a light blue steroid liquid.

This could change... well, everything.

He's excited — gloves, long showers, stronger workouts, _gloves_ — but he's also incredibly nervous.

Because... everything. That's a lot.

Jack blinks off the memory to find that his left arm has been prepped, his inner elbow turned brown with antiseptic iodine. Across the small space, standing beside her tray of materials, the medic fits a thick needle onto the labeled syringe. When she turns towards Jack, flicking gently at the syringe, he obediently holds out his right arm.

“Are you ready?” She asks, motioning for Jack to reposition himself on the bed. He pulls his legs up and lays back, and with a start he realizes that, _hey, this is really happening._ He's survived the first two rounds of shots, and is about to receive his third. He's doing this. He's really doing this.

From here on out, everything changes. Everything _really_ changes.

Jack closes his eyes.  
  
The needle pushes into his arm.

—

Jack enters the dining hall with unsure step, scratching lightly at his hungry stomach as he glances around the space. It's pretty vacant, all things considered; usually, when Jack happens to glance in the room on the way to his dorm, every table is overflowing with recruits, laughing and talking and enjoying their meals. Not tonight, though; dining hours are almost over. The tables are empty, save a few in the back, and littered with the after effects of spaghetti dinner. It smells like over cooked pasta and marinara, and feels very empty. Dinner’s ghost.

Jack has warred with himself over attending an actual dinner since he’s arrived on base, and tonight, his hungry stomach finally won him over; he can't keep squirreling cold sandwiches and lukewarm apples away from the kitchens forever. Besides, he's sick of hiding what provisions he does acquire from his roommate’s insatiable appetite. If he has to return to his room to discover that Fir has eaten his entire stash of meals ever again...

Jack’s boots squeak against the buffed floors as he steps through the door and heads towards the buffet line. The man who fills his plate is dead-eyed, probably exhausted and cursing Jack for arriving so close to closing, but steam curls invitingly from Jack’s spaghetti and he finds himself unbothered by the thousand-yard stare. He moves down the line to the condiments, grabbing a bread roll on his way.

“Jack!”

Jack pauses in fishing for a fork from a mishmash bin of utensils — mostly spoons — to glance over his shoulder. A familiar face, one he hasn't seen since his arrival on base, waves at him from across the room.

“Meyers,” he breathes, quickly settling for a spoon as he heads towards where she's sitting. The relief that he feels at seeing someone that he knows is immediate and a bit surprising. They had never been particularly close during basic training, but they had become closer upon discovering that they were the only two from their unit selected for the program. Meyers had been the excitement to Jack’s apprehension; they had been good foils for one another.

Now, Jack just feels relieved to see someone who reminds him of home. Of why he’s here.

Meyers smiles invitingly as he nears her table, where she sits alone and surrounded by empty plates and med packets of various sizes. The bags under her eyes are severe, stark against the unusual paleness of her dark skin.

“Sit,” she says, pulling some of her trays out of the way so Jack can sit across from her. There's no one else at the table. Jack sits, carefully setting down his tray. The med packet nearest to him is open to a page about cortisol levels.

“How have you been?” He asks carefully, unfolding his napkin. Meyer’s smile falters, but she recovers quickly, shutting the packet in her hands and setting it down on the table. Her thumb is bookmarked between the pages.

Jack sets his napkin in his lap. He looks up, waiting for her to finish.

“Oh, you know,” she waves her free hand, but then stops, as if unable what to say next. Her expression is pained; from this close, she looks gaunt, like she hasn't slept in weeks. Her short hair is unkempt, shining and greasy under the LEDs. Another med pack near Jack’s left hand is open to a page about nausea.

His stomach sinks a little. He wonders if he looks as broken down as Meyers does.

“...Yeah,” he says, scooping up pasta with his spoon. “Yeah, I.... Yeah.”

“Honestly,” Meyers laughs. It's a thin sound, tired and hiccuping. “I knew it would be tough, but I didn't expect this.” She sweeps her hand over the table, gesturing broadly to all her paperwork. “I mean, Jesus — I've vomited so much bile, I'm surprised I haven't burned a hole in my throat.”

“Tell me about it,” Jack agrees around a mouthful of spaghetti. It's bland, and the sauce could definitely use some meat, but it's hot, and therefore edible. “I was glued to the toilet for days. I thought I was dying.”

Meyers sighs, seemingly recalling her own difficulties. She grabs a water bottle from somewhere beneath her chair and takes a long swig. As she recaps it, Jack can see her studying him the same way that he's (less directly) studying her.

“Man,” she finally says after a few beats of silence. “You look like shit.”

“Thanks.”

“Is your nose broken? We haven't even started training yet.”

“I've got a roommate with a temper,” Jack explains. He feels no reason to lie to Meyers; she knows him, she knows he can fend for himself. Not to mention that she knows how to keep a secret; like a vault, that one. Jack catches himself attempting to stab his pasta with his spoon. He scoops instead; his success is immediate.

“No shit.” Meyers shakes her head, eyes wide. “That sucks, dude. I honestly think I would've died without my mentor. She smuggled in Ginger Ale for me, can you believe that? I have no idea how she did it. She's the best.”

Jack can't help but feel a flash of jealousy at that, hot and sharp in his chest, but it's overshadowed by his relief that, when she had been suffering, Meyers had had help. She hadn't had to stumble to a communal bathroom and hope for a stroke of luck to get through the night.

He kinda gets what Gabriel had said about not wanting anyone else to suffer like he had.

“That's great,” Jack says, and he means it. “What's her name?”

“Laura.” Meyers smiles, bright and cheery. She almost looks wistful, the discomfort that she had radiated previously quickly evaporating from her posture. “Laura Kensington. She's... she's a badass.”

Meyers takes another drink from her water bottle before capping it and setting it back in its spot beneath the table.

Jack is starting to feel a little warm, a little flushed. He sets his spoon down and realizes that his hand is trembling.

“Oh man,” he murmurs, inquisitively turning his hand back and forth. The vein where his injection had breached is bruised and tender; it doesn't look blown, but it hurts anyways. His heart begins a motion that he can only describe as a thrum. He feels like he's on a ski lift, or how he feels at the beginning of days during which he's particularly over sensitive.

Both of which are not great.

“Is your injection settling?” Meyers asked. “You're looking a little flushed.”

“Is that what this is?” Jack isn't in pain, but he isn't quite uncomfortable either — “settling” is a good word for the strange motions of the blood in his veins. “I feel like I'm buzzing.”

“That happened to me earlier,” Meyers says, and shoves a packet towards Jack. It's the thick one, the one that he owns his own copy of; _Amanda Meyers | 0071_ is written in small, marching print across the front. She opens the page to the spot that her thumb has been holding and taps the title card.

“This whole section talks about side effects for the third round of shots. How many did they give you today?”

“Three,” Jack says, thumb swiping absently over the crook of his arm. There's another sore spot on his thigh, and a third in his side, but neither pulse so much as his arm does.

“Three. Okay. So you wanna read page 42 —”

Meyers begins pointing at various spots on the page, explaining and emphasizing various bullet points, but Jack’s vision is beginning to swim. He knows what it feels like to pass out, and this isn't that. It's more like he's suddenly got a bunch of water in his eyes that he can't blink out. He rubs at them to no avail, but the fogginess clears up after a few moments anyways: it's there, and then it isn't.

Probably a trick of the light.

“—honestly, you should read this thing,” Jack zones back in to the conversation and Meyers is animated, excitedly flipping through her packet. It's littered with notes. Jack remembers, suddenly, that he originally met Meyers during their unit’s medic program; she had loved that stuff.

And then his vision goes blurry again.

“It's like _What to Expect when You’re Expecting_ , but instead of growing babies, we’re growing, you know, muscles and shit. Super informative and — hey, are you okay?”

Jack blinks, staring at the splotch of grey and brown that he knows is Meyers. He squints, and she focuses a little bit. “Yeah, I'm fine. Just tired, I think.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I think —” his vision returns, as clear as ever, and Meyers is leaning forward, watching him with blatant concern. The proximity isn't great, but Jack can't really bring himself to mind right now. He's got bigger problems than the breaching of personal bubbles.

“I think I should turn in,” Jack finishes. He scrubs a hand over his face. “It's been a long day.”

“That's probably a good idea,” Meyers agrees. “You look exhausted.”

Jack gathers everything neatly onto his tray, placing the napkin from his lap beside his sad, no longer hot, half-eaten spaghetti. Jack decides that the current state of his tray is actually a good metaphor for his own personal situation right about now. Meyers doesn't budge.

“You're not coming?”

“Got a bit more reading I want to wrap up,” she explains. “This room has the best lighting.”

Jack stands up, carefully pushing his chair back do it doesn't scrape against the floor.

"Hey," Meyers says. 

Jack looks up. "Yeah?

"I'll see you around, okay? Room 160," she offers him a half grin, lifting her shoulders in a gentle shrug. "Just in case."

Her kindness is genuine, but Jack knows, deep down behind the wash of gratitude that travels through his throat, that he'll never allow himself to take advantage of it.

He thinks, somewhere between the gentleness and the shine of worry in her expression, that she knows it too.

Jack nods, lifting one a hand in a little wave that Meyers is quick to return as he makes his way towards the tray deposit. By the time he's at the door, Meyers is nose-deep in her packets, looking determined and beat to all hell as she flips back and forth between pages. Jack envies her resilience.

He dumps his tray and leaves Meyers to her work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever had a broken nose? It's wild. 
> 
> Halloween is coming, and I am NOT READY. Jack's new skin, though? I am so ready for that. Yes, please. I love it. Would love to have it someday :))))))) 
> 
> Anyways, yeah, I know - more OCs. Where's Gabe, you ask? I dunno. Chilling. Carving a pumpkin. He'll be back soon.
> 
> TLDR As always, I hope that you enjoyed this chapter, and thank you so much for reading! See you next time!


	8. fall

Jack receives his final round of shots a few days later. They burn through his veins with an agony that makes even nausea seem favorable. The serum ignites his very bones, leaving nothing but exhaustion and ashes in its wake.

Jack curls up on his cot and cries silently while his medic rubs uncomfortable circles into his back.

“This is the worst of it,” she promises, sounding genuinely happy. He wishes she would stop touching him. “You've done it, Jack. You're on your way. It's all downhill from here.”

Jack, somehow, believes her. With a wave of hope that leaves him breathless, he finds that he believes her with every aching fiber of his being. The serum has taken. The hurricane of pain is finally past him; he’s emerged on the other side of it, torn apart and beaten down, but he’s still breathing. Still fighting.

He's wracked with another wave of pain, but it holds an air of finality. He won. He will win.

As the fire fades to smoke, whispering faintly through his bloodstream, Jack truly believes that the worst is behind him.

He shouldn't have.

—

The dirt track of Jack’s high school had been his safe haven since he was eleven years old. During the peak of summer, no one else was ever there; it took a special kind of person to brave the wet heat of Indiana, and Jack was always desperate enough to be that person.

He loved that stupid track, from the patchy football field within it to the surrounding creaky metal bleachers. He would run for what felt like hours, ignoring the way the sun beat down on his skin and turned him a painful cherry red. His mother always scolded him, but Jack hated the sticky oil of sunscreen even more than he hated sweat; so naked to the elements, he ran.

The best times to run were when it rained. Jack never much liked being wet, but something about the rain made being wet _fun_ — he'd go out in a t-shirt and shorts and race beside the river until he was soaked to the bone, mud caked up his thighs and splattered in his hair. Sometimes he'd try the track, but he liked the way that rain made the river mist up in gentle clouds. He'd run through them and pretend he was flying. Jack always felt genuinely happy in the rain.

High school made running hard. Track had been fun for a while, and Jack had been really good at it; but it began to make him miserable. His coaches never listened when Jack said no, never relinquished when he begged for an event switch. His teammates didn't treat him... well, they didn't treat him right. Not like he was worthwhile, definitely not like he was a friend. That they didn't treat him like much of anything, in fact, was the real problem.

Because Jack didn't make eye contact. He didn't like talking. He didn't pass the baton well. He flinched away from huddle ups. He broke the nose of the first (and only) guy who ever towel whipped him in the bathroom.

He was different. His teammates knew that.

So they didn't outright abuse him, didn't beat him up or call him out on any shit. But they also didn't do much of anything. Jack was a backdrop, someone you asked for help only when you were out of options, who you spoke to only if you were desperate or otherwise in distress. When he did speak, he was ignored. When he wasn't needed, even if he tried to engage, it was like he didn't exist.

It was almost worse, in a way.

Running stopped being a release from stress, stopped being a way for Jack to make his anxieties physical, his discomforts corporeal. No longer could he beat his stresses into the ground, because they started living there. When Jack’s feet touched the earth, the earth rose up to meet him.

He couldn't escape, and he festered.

After two years, the track stopped being his safe place. After two and a half, his life became scrambled.

And then the first omnic wars began, and Jack — uprooted, uncertain, and _searching_ — lost himself completely.

—

The SEP’s strange, underground track — a thin ellipse that loops below a high, concrete ceiling — smells like fresh rubber and sweat.

Jack’s feet pound against the floor, and even on his fifth mile, he still finds himself taken aback by how _springy_ his steps are. The lack of stress on his calves is both unfamiliar and nice. This is far cry from the hard-packed dirt tracks that he knew in Indiana, the riverside gravel and the spongy fields; this thing reeks of money. Even the freshly-renovated track at basic hasn't been this nice, and Jack had always considered that one to be luxurious.

Jack can't help but wonder if there's another reason why his legs and lungs feel so much stronger than usual. The injection site on his arm burns thinly at the thought. Jack’s blood rushes in his ears.

The SEP track is bright red and has yet to be so much as scuffed. Jack is glad for the AC; if it were hot, the rubber smell would probably be unbearable.

The room had been empty when Jack had first arrived that morning, filled with nothing but the humming lights overhead and the sound of Jack’s own breathing. It's busy now, dotted with a few senior officers and the fifteen or so odd recruits that had faced success with their serums. Some have already begun sparring on the thick mats way across the room, taking out their nervous energy on each other the way that Jack is taking it out on the track. Someone’s back slams into the ground with a dull thud; almost in tandem, a whistle pierces through the air.

It's 6 AM; time to begin.

—

Fir’s smile is even uglier than usual under the bright white lights of the training center. He dances around the edge of the sparring ring like he's got nothing to prove, all swagger and unsponsored confidence as his posse crows and whoops from the sidelines. The whole thing is so cliche that it makes Jack cringe and wonder when he stumbled into a B-list flick. A _posse_ — come _on_. Jack keeps his hands raised, tense and bouncing on the balls of his feet, as Fir tries to bait him to his side of the ring.

Fir waves a gloved hand at Jack, beckoning to him as if he were a dog. “C’mon, Morrison,” Fir croons. “C’mere, boy.”

Jack wants to break his fucking teeth.

Of course his first mentor-lead training session would be hand-to-hand. Not strategics, not shooting, not even typical, back-breaking endurance drills; hand-to-hand _fucking_ combat.

Not that Jack’s bad in a fight — he's scrappy and fast and he knows how to hit where it hurts. But this isn't a brawl where Jack can claw and writhe his way out of chokeholds; this is a closed-hand training session against a guy way bigger than him who’s most certainly out for Jack’s blood. The sting in Jack’s nose and the bruising beneath his eyes has reminded him of this for days.

Fir is dangerous. Jack is dangerous too; but right now, faced with a peanut gallery calling for his demise and a guy who would probably kill Jack if Jack did, somehow, manage to win the upper hand, Jack feels like he has no option but to make this as painless for himself as possible.

In the end, it's Fir that strikes first. He's bullheaded, impatient; his first swing goes wide and Jack ducks it, lifting his arms to block the next from slamming into his head. Fir is strong, but he starts slow and inconsistent; too hopped up on his own ego and on the praises from the sidelines to really pay attention.

They trade blow-for-blow, Jack’s forearms eventually beginning to sting from the amount of hits that he weathers. But it's slow, and Fir is in no rush; he genuinely seems to think that he has the upper hand just by throwing punch after punch. He doesn't use his legs at all, doesn't feel the need to move much to avoid Jack’s swings. His entourage yells for him to hit harder; Fir laughs and jabs at Jack’s ribs.

He's predictable. This is too easy.

Eventually, Jack, stupidly, gets a little bold. He kicks at Fir’s knees, slipping a hand down Fir’s arm to shove at his shoulder, and he nearly sends him toppling. Fir shakes Jack off and wheels upright, and the expression on his face has gone from gloat to murder.

“Fuckin’ rookie,” Fir growls, pumping his fists and advancing again, this time with a focus that burns in his pupils.

Jack hefts his own fists a little higher and braces himself for the storm.

The blows are harder now, more precisely thrown, and Jack is forced to dance around the ring to keep from weathering too many of them. Fir’s boosted strength is showing now; Jack is tough, but Fir is bolstered by something that Jack can't touch quite yet. The serum has made him superhuman, stamina and strength shoved past limits that Jack has yet to cross. Jack is still too close to baseline.

But Jack is faster, and a small part of him erupts into glee as Fir’s frustration builds every time one of his punches meets nothing but air. Fir growls and gets sloppy, slapping at the spaces that Jack vacates nanoseconds before he strikes. It's pretty great to watch his roommate suffer; Jack finds strength in that.

But as time goes on and sweat drips down Jack’s brow, his breathing becoming labored, Fir is still cool as ice. Despite the sweat that shines on his brow, his breathing is even and controlled. He prowls around Jack and strikes with a speed that Jack is quickly losing. His bicep bulges as he lands a hit on Jack’s ribs that send the breath wheezing from his lungs.

Jack reels back, barely managing to duck a right hook at his ear, and he makes a rash decision. Fir is sloppy, but he isn't flagging, but Jack clearly is. This fight has gone on for way longer than Jack is used to, way longer than he would have been able to stand back at basic. He's exhausted, he’s thirsty. He needs to end this.

Fir throws a straight punch at Jack’s nose, his other arm dropping _just_ enough to expose his ribs, and Jack decides he’ll return to his roots; he kicks. His foot connects with Fir’s knee, and as Fir twists away from the blow, taken aback, Jack is ready. He spins and the heel of his foot collides solidly with Fir’s sternum.

All that brutal basic training was worth it, is what Jack thinks, as Fir coughs and drops to one knee.

Jack inhales through his nose, ignoring the resulting twinge of pain, and stares down at Fir as they both regain their breath. It feels unbelievably good to stare down, rather than up, at his son of a bitch mentor. He finds he much prefers staring at the dirty-blonde crown of Fir’s head rather than his crack-toothed smile.

Jack wants to kick him again for good measure.

Fir stays kneeling, one fist planed on the ground. Jack waits for him to move, fists clenched tight and shoulders tense, but after a good twenty seconds, he decides for himself that Fir is done. Jack turns and begins to head towards the edge of the padded mat, peeling the gloves off of his fingers. Fir is down; it's over. Jack’s got better things to do than entertain his mentor and his stupid followers for another ungodly amount of time. There's a climbing wall across the room that he's particularly keen on trying out.

Jack’s searching for the closest water canteen when someone calls out to him. Jack turns, searching for the sound of the voice, when something slams headlong into his side. Stars blossom across his vision and he hits the ground hard. His head snaps back against the mat.

“Lesson number one,” Fir hisses into his ear, a sharp knee digging into Jack’s ribs. "Never turn your back on the enemy."

Before Jack can move, beg, do anything, pain pops, bright and sharp, in his right cheekbone, and his world dissolves into a flurry of blows.

 _Shit_ , is all that Jack can think, fighting weakly to block the hits as blood pours from a cut in his eyebrow, from his already abused nose. Because in a way, Fir is right; but he's also a filthy fucking cheater, and Jack wishes with gusto that he could buck Fir off of him and return him hit for hit.

But he can't. Maybe it's that Fir is too heavy, maybe it's that he's immobilized by pain — or maybe it's that Jack realizes with a start that he is truly powerless. He has no allies here, no one to stick up for him when Fir knocks him to the ground. No way to gain any ground without being thrown ten steps back. He's stuck, feet firmly planted, and any forward traction is a call for being put back in his place.

Fir, this place, is going to eat him alive, and Jack is powerless to do anything but lay back and take it.

Jack stares up at Fir, blinded by blood and rage and by the futile movements of his battered forearms, and feels hollow, aching, and really, truly hopeless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uh... How've ya'll been?
> 
> Sorry for the late update! Between a new job and a ton of costume making, I had the busiest October and didn't have a lot of time to work on this :( Hopefully I can get back into the groove of writing nightly again with NaNoWriMo. Hopefully. I'll do my best!!
> 
> On another note, I'll try to update soon since I hate to leave off with such a bummer of a chapter, but if I remember correctly the next couple installments are bummers too, so I apologize in advance. The angst train is pulling in to the station. Maybe. I have to check my (not so) carefully kept notes.
> 
> Anyways, as always, thank you so much for reading, and I hope that you enjoyed! See you soon!


	9. sarabande

The world dissolves into blurry shapes and muted sounds. Jack can feel his heart beating in his chest, his ears, the bruises on his forearms.

The walk to the clinic from the training center is long and laborious. One of Jack’s eyes has all but swollen shut, and the other is acting up, cloudy and strange in a way that makes Jack jumpy. He keeps a hand on the wall and hugs it, hoping he doesn't knock headlong into anyone as he traverses the brightly lit hallways.

Everything is echoing, resonating in waves that crash over and over against Jack’s brain, his senses. The sounds of Fir and his friends shouting, ribbing one another as Fir stepped off the mat. The hollowed patterns of Jack’s own breathing, ragged and uneven in his ears. The feeling of the mat beneath his back. The taste of blood in his mouth, and the iron, sharp solidity of the splits in his skin. The way the lights blare overhead, making everything seem washed out and dreamlike. Unreal.

There's a song, loud and obnoxious, looping and looping in his head. The same line, the same intonation, playing in time with the beat of his heart.

Everything broken down into particles and senses to make one, overwhelming whole.

Jack hasn't had a meltdown in a long time, hasn't fallen prey to his own senses since the first week of basic training. And that had been a brutal episode, triggered by a hazing that had left Jack’s entire unit in shambles and resulted in the firing of several officers.

Jack drags his hand against the smooth surface of the hallway wall. A hazing. Was that what this was all about? Was that the reason for Fir’s hatred and his unbridled violence? Would Jack return to his room to smuggled champagne and praise that he was officially _part of the group?_

Jack shudders.

No. No way. Fir is just an asshole. And Jack is just —

Unlucky.

Isn't his serum supposed to be helping with this? This... _too much-ness_ , the rush of blood in his ears. The hot sparks of emotion in his chest, making him feel full and like he needs to start yelling or he's going to explode.

Yell or cry. Either one.

Jack just can't figure it out. It's too much, the hurt and the confusion and the way that his hand keeps catching on the lips of doorways. The way he keeps wiping his face, trying to scrub the blood and sweat off his forehead and out of his eyes, only for blood to seep back in place mere moments later.

It's just too much.

By the time Jack reaches the medbay, the world has narrowed to a pinpoint. His breathing, open mouthed and rapid, is shallow, and full-body tremors wrack up and down Jack’s spine. He can't breathe through his nose.

Everything feels stiff and unnatural. His clothes feel too tight, too rough against his chest. He wants to rip off his shoes and escape somewhere where the lights aren't so blaring. But first, he needs to get the blood to stop streaming from his brow, or he's going to do something drastic.

He's on the precipice looking down. He's gotta get somewhere safe before he falls.

The glass sliding doors of the clinic are a welcome sight. They part before him with a clean-sounding snik. One of the two medics working the front desk, a short woman that he doesn't recognize, immediately rushes to him and says something, reaching up to touch his face. Jack flinches away, looking over her head, unable to answer her stream of indecipherable questions. He doesn't want her to touch him and ducks her hands every time she reaches for him or tries to keep him still. Her words are frustrated, garbled nonsense. Blood keeps getting in Jack’s eyes.

He's slipping.

He needs _his_ medic. No strangers. Not now.

She finally emerges some minutes — hours? seconds? — later and immediately ushers Jack out of the reception, leading him past the main recovery center and into one of the back rooms. She doesn't touch him, guiding him with cues and quiet commands, and Jack follows, eyes fixed on her tightly pleated hair.

By the time they reach their destination, a small room in the back with a single examining chair and intensive care equipment, Jack is crying; huge, silent tears that streak through the blood on his cheeks and add salt to the rusty taste in his mouth. Jack doesn't cry, it isn't his MO; he's a farm kid, and farm kids are raised on dirt and grit, not tears. Distantly, Jack thinks that serum must be doing _something_ to him for him to be crying so damn much.

His medic closes the door behind them and immediately dials down the overhead lights, something that Jack is immensely grateful for. The pain in his head clears enough to become mostly bearable, and while he doesn't like it, he also doesn't protest as his medic gently taps his biceps and leads him to the cot.

Jack sits, wincing at the unpleasant crinkling of the paper cover; he immediately scrambles off. There's a ripping noise, loud and grating, and then Jack is being tapped towards the chair again. The sensation of fingers against his arm is like tiny sparklers erupting against his skin; bright and fizzling and hot. Like fire poppers burning in his veins.

But this time, when he pulls himself up into the chair, it's leathery and silent. No more paper, no more noise.

No more noise.  
  
Jack closes his eyes.  
  
Lights beneath his eyelids. Static in his blood. But no more noise.

Jack breathes. In and out, deep and intentional. With every stuttering inhale and exhale, he can feel himself cooling; over time, the sensitivity of his skin calms enough that he no longer feels choked by his cotton t-shirt, and the tears streaming down his face become lighter. His chest starts feeling less full; less weighted and out of his own control.

After a while — maybe minutes, maybe hours — the tears have slowed almost to a stop. Jack lays on the cot, wrung out and exhausted and feeling like he's just run a marathon. But he feels better, finally; he can hear the ticking of a clock, the gentle hum of the AC.

He wiggles his fingers and then twirls his wrists. Testing motor movements, the shuddering twitches of his hands. He's moving, and that's good. Fragile, but better.

Something presses, soft and cool, against the cut in his brow, and Jack flinches in alarm. But it feels nice rather than abrasive, mopping up some of the sweat and blood from his face before returning to press down against his brow. Jack sighs as the blood finally stops flowing down his cheek. His forehead feels numb.

Quick and efficient, his medic begins working on his face, injecting more of that bio stuff into his nose and putting a stitch or two into his brow. It stings, but Jack doesn't mind the pain; it gives him something to focus on, a pinpoint of sensation in the overwhelming ache of his head.

As his medic starts an IV, quickly fitting it to Jack’s right hand and attaching a bag filled with clear liquid, Jack breathes. He keeps himself calm.

And then he wonders why she’s giving him an IV.

“Fluids,” his medic says, probably sensing his eyes on her, and when she sits back into her rolling stool her expression is stern. “You’re probably dehydrated from... well, anyways. Could affect the onset of your serums, so I'm giving you fluids. You're here anyways, right?”

“Where is _here_?” Jack asks without thinking. The words feel like goo in his mouth, slow and tripping as they cross his heavy tongue. At least he said _something_. Being nonverbal is not something that Jack enjoys.

His medic smiles at him. “You're talking again. Good.”

She reaches up to adjust his IV bag and then whirls away to the small desk across the room, where an open file sits. Jack likes the sound of her stool's rollers against the linoleum.

“Panic room,” she answers a moment later, scooting back towards Jack with his file in her hands. She flips a page up and reads the one beneath, her movements surprisingly careful for someone distracted. “You ever have a meltdown before?

Jack nods. She glances up at the movement, pulling a pen from behind her ear and marking something on his file.

“Okay. How often?”

“Not sure,” Jack says, looking down at his hands. The one with the IV tingles when he moves it, experimentally clenching and unclenching his hand. “Less than I used to, I guess.”

“Hmm,” his medic closes his file and tosses it behind her. It spins and lends expertly on her desk. Jack is honestly pretty impressed. Unfortunately, he's also confused.

He points, unsure, towards where the file now sits atop her desk. She waves a hand dismissively.

“Let's not worry about that right now.”

“Okay,” Jack manages.

His medic tilts her head, eyes narrowed and studious. She scoots closer to the cot and lifts a hand to gently turn Jack’s face, looking at both sides. Her fingers are cool and feather-light on his jawline.

“Instead,” she says, letting go, “Let’s talk about how your nose got busted for the second time in a month.”

Jack grimaces. “I don't really —”

“Nope,” she says, popping the ‘p’. “Don’t dodge the question, kid. What's going on?”

_What’s going on?_

Principals’ offices and after-school care centers. Walking home with scuffed shoes and a snapped umbrella. Muddy footprints on his shirt. Whispers in the corners of locker rooms. Averted eyes and vacant expressions.

Jack’s heard that question an awful lot, usually in the same intonation: faux, obligatory concern with a low-lying undercurrent of _waste-of-my-time_. Teachers, councilors, his parents. Every time that he came home from grade school with his new shirt caked in mud. Every time that he was sent home with a black eye and a stern warning about fighting on the playground. Every time that he hit the track, hard and fast and desperate, and ran until his legs gave out beneath him.

The grass beneath his back, the open sky up above. The thick, raspy feeling in his chest, smothering and all-encompassing.

_What's going on?_

He could end it all now. This weird thing with Fir, this violent back and forth that has him walking on eggshells and burdened with stress; he could end it right now. He could tell his medic everything, spill his confusions and his woes to her and beg her for civility, for a second chance somewhere else with someone else. Anyone else.

But it's weakness that makes him want it. It's weakness that makes him want to beg for help.

Jack is not weak. He lived in the fields where nothing grew but cultivated flora and loneliness; he was raised on love, but brought up by hot winds and endless open skies. He knows loneliness as intimately as he knows himself, because he is nothing if not alone.

He didn't answer all those other times that someone looked him square in the face and asked. His mother begged, his father pleaded; Jack never broke. He weathered, he stumbled, he _fell_ , even; but he never broke.

Because Jack, if nothing else, is strong, and Jack will not let Fir win.

Or maybe it's that he won't let himself lose.

When Jack doesn't answer immediately, his medic’s expression softens. She thrums her fingers against her knee and glances back towards Jack’s file. The stethoscope around her neck catches the dimmed light for a second, throwing it against the nearby wall.

“Listen,” she says, and she sounds a little fatigued. “I know you military types are all about being the tough guy. Not letting anyone get to you, proving you're strong no matter what the world throws at you. Do-or-die. You have to be, I get it.”

She looks back at Jack. He shifts a little, suddenly uneasy by the intensity of her stare.

“But, Jack,” she says, and he snaps to wary attention at the sound of his name, “There is no strength in needless endurance. Only foolishness.”

“I don't know what that means,” he says, feeling a little helpless.

“It means,” she says, “that seeking aid when faced with bad situations — situations that can be amended, especially — is not a show of weakness. It's a sign of a different kind of strength.”

Jack doesn't respond, staring into the earnest gaze of his medic through a haze of confusion and discomfort. He doesn't like how close she seems to be edging to his thoughts; he also doesn't like how he's being talked to like he’s some sort of victim. Jack isn't a victim, he’s not innocent prey that's been felled by Fir’s meaty, cruel hands — he’s just unlucky.

Is this a test? Does his medic know, and just wants Jack to admit to it? _My roommate is abusing me_. But it's not abuse, is it? It's bullying. Cruel, painful, uncomfortable bullying.

Jack has dealt with worse. He’s not weak; he can stand a broken nose or two, especially when he’s faced with biotic injections that mend the breaks in seconds.

He’s spent long nights thinking about his options, mulling them over and over in his head until they blend into a pile of nothings. He originally wanted a room change — clung to the idea, even — but now he can’t ignore the thought that doing so is to admit that he’s weak. That he somehow _allowed_ Fir to get to him. That he’s the kind of guy who cries to command the second that something makes him uncomfortable.

No way. Jack hasn't earned that right.

Circumstances are what they are. _You get what you get and you don't throw a fit._

In front of Jack, his medic stands and stretches her arms above her head. Her back pops loudly and she sighs raggedly. Jack stares at her, past her, and she lowers her arms and stares back.

“Think about that for a little while,” she encourages, the sound tinny and layered beneath the rapid undercurrent of Jack’s own thoughts. She checks his IV one last time and grabs his chart, telling him that she'll be back a little later to take out the needle and send him on his way.

“Rest,” she commands. The door slides shut behind her and the lights overhead dim into a gentle glow.

Something in the room beeps once, soft and unobtrusive.  
  
Jack tips his head back and swims in the fireworks beneath his eyelids.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone (it's me) started three other long-ass projects and forgot to update this one. I'm sorry. My brain is insatiable.
> 
> On the bright side, if you actually enjoy my writing, you'll be pleased to know I've got more r76 stuff in the works (also rvb, but that's a different kettle of fish). If not, well.... I'm surprised that you read this far, but I both appreciate and respect your dedication. 
> 
> Anyways, more chapters for this bad boy are incoming! Based on my recent track record, who knows when I'll post them, but I'll try not to wait a whole ass month again before updating (especially since the next chapter is already written).
> 
> Until then, thank you so much for reading, hang in there, and Happy Hanukkah!!


	10. hotel bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Late night TV cures all wounds.

Jack doesn't want to return to his dorm.

Meltdowns have always made him feel exhausted. Back home, he’d be out for the count for at least a day, hiding behind black-out curtains and beneath heavy quilts. He doesn't have that option here; he's got morning training again tomorrow, and no mother to bring him soup and crackers because he feels too wiped to get out of bed.

If Jack wants to function properly by 6 AM, the last thing that he needs is to encounter the cause of his stress and risk a relapse. His tears are tucked away for now, but he’s still walking the crying tightrope; one little push and he’ll fall right back over the edge.

He sniffs, and his nose stings.

Jack walks down the hallway, the hood of his sweatshirt pulled low over his forehead. It's quiet at this time of night; most sane people would be in bed already, what with the clock pushing 1 AM and training starting in little more than five hours.

Jack should be in bed too.

His sneakers are quiet against the polished floor. His hands are shoved deep into the front pocket of his hoodie, fists clenched in an attempt to warm his aching fingers. It's always cold down here, miles and miles underground. But maybe Jack is feeling a little cold anyways.

A little empty.

There's some cots in one of the common rooms past Jack’s dorm. It's small and usually unoccupied, meant more for storage than lounging, but it's got a fridge full of waters and a little TV and places to sit. Jack’s seen it in passing once or twice; it's a bit out of the way compared to the other gathering spaces. But he knows it's there, and he knows it's probably empty and dark and _quiet_.

Jack walks right past his hall, flipping off the _201-210_ number placard for good measure, and continues deeper into the base to where he knows the break room is tucked. The lights flicker a little overhead as he passes by the officers’ quarters.

When he reaches his destination, he pauses, hand hovering in the space between his chest and the door. The surface is wooden and lacking a scanner, unlike most of the other rooms in the base. A little more old fashioned, less tech-y. Jack kind of likes it; it's part of the reason why it caught his attention in the first place. The scuffed redwood sticks out against the grey and white of the muted hallway walls.

But it's not the grain of the door that makes him hesitate. There's sounds emitting from inside, quiet but definitely present; gentle voices conversing in a language that he can't quite parse out. They're tinny, though, and underscored with some sort of dramatic instrumental; Jack realizes that it must be the TV.

The base is particular about wasting electricity, so the TV wouldn't just be on. There’s someone else already here.

Jack considers his options, one hand fiddling idly with the door handle. He decides he’ll just dip in and out. He’s already come this far, and he might as well get some bottled waters from the communal fridge that he knows is full of them. Besides, maybe whoever it is will leave soon. Even better, maybe someone was just careless and forgot to turn off the TV.

Jack can't stand here forever. He's wasting time with his circular thoughts. Wasting time and wasting the little bit of energy that he still has.

Jack pushes his hand into the door and slides it open, eyes downward as the muffled voices suddenly become clear. He glances up. Across the room, the small TV, propped up on an old desk, shows a scene in a garden; two women tearfully argue with one another in a language that must be Spanish.

The sound is turned low, and subtitles are scrawled across the bottom of the screen. One of the women on the screen turns to flee.

And then Jack’s eyes are drawn to the space in front of the TV. Someone lounges on the couch, big-shouldered and uncaring as Jack quietly steps into the room. Their arms are stretched wide, taking up nearly the whole length of the couch. Open and comfortable. The broad plane of their back is slouched back against the cushions.

But, still. Someone _is_ here, and they appear comfortable; that throws a brutal wrench in Jack’s plans.

Jack’s heart drops a little bit at the realization that he’ll have to return to his room, to the smell and the unpleasant presence of his roommate. He wishes he could ask the person watching the TV to leave; who stays up watching telenovelas when they have early training to do, anyway? Maybe this guy has no idea just how late it is.

The door slides shut behind Jack, clicking quietly into place. Jack tears his eyes away from the TV and hurries to the fridge. He’s not one to pry — if this person wants to ruin their sleep schedule, Jack’s not going to stop them.

Jack’s got his hand on the handle of the fridge door when a voice stops him, cutting through the low noise of the television. It's a voice like thunder, rumbling and deep and commanding Jack’s attention despite the obvious note of exhaustion that it conveys; the deliverance of a request upon a weary sigh.

“Hey, man.”

Jack turns. The man on the couch lifts a hand without turning around.

“Pass me a water, would you?”

Easy enough. Jack tugs open the fridge and fishes out two bottles, the voice ringing around in his ears. He knows the sound, has had it on replay in the back of his mind for weeks; there's a gruffness that's unfamiliar, but he knows the undertone, smooth and rich and gentle.

Jack shuts the fridge door and crosses the small space. He hesitates a moment, staring nervously between the offered hand and the back of the man’s head. The TV still plays, the light of it casting shadows across the room; Jack determines that the language scrawled across the screen is definitely Spanish.

“Here you go,” Jack says, slipping the water bottle into the offered hand just as Gabriel glances back over his shoulder.

“Jack,” he breathes, eyes crinkling in a way that reads both as surprise and pleasure. The latter makes Jack pause, unused to invoking any such reaction and wholly unequipped to handle it.

Then Gabriel smiles, and Jack suddenly feels lost. “Hi.”

“Hey,” Jack answers wearily, the corner of his mouth ticking upwards in the faint, nervous mimic of a smile. “You're up late.”

“Could say the same to you, rookie,” Gabriel counters, cracking the top off his water bottle and taking a long sip. When he's done, he throws back his head and sighs, hair messy and endearingly floppy as he screws the bottle top back on. He's due for a haircut; even the shaved sides of his haircut are getting a little lengthy.

Jack wants to run his fingers through it.

“Couldn't sleep,” Jack says, tearing his gaze away from Gabriel’s curly mop of hair. Gabriel hums and tips his head back towards the TV.

Jack isn't sure if he's being dismissed, so he stands awkwardly at Gabriel’s back, heart thumping and fingers fidgeting on his own bottle. Just as he's about to make a break for the door, Gabriel shifts a little bit and pats the empty spot beside him on the couch.

Jack knows this cue. He steps around the worn polyester couch and sinks into the cushions.

They're quiet for several moments, the room filled with nothing but the sounds of dramatized conversations and the hum of the refrigerator. Jack feels more than a bit out of place, almost like he's intruded on what he hadn't realized was hallowed ground. He holds his water bottle and pointedly keeps his eyes on the TV, trying his best to conceal the fact that all of his attention is centered on the man beside him.

“Couldn't sleep, huh.” It's not a question, but an acceptance, breathed between Gabriel’s lips like a quiet prayer. “Ain't that the way.”

Jack isn't sure how to respond, or even if he's really meant to. He keeps watching the TV, concentrating on reading the subtitles. He doesn't understand them, but it gives him something to do other than stare awkwardly at Gabriel.

“You like soaps?” Gabriel asks suddenly just as Jack is taking a drink of his water. He coughs a little in his haste to swallow, face reddening.

“Yeah, yeah,” he rasps and coughs again, swiping a hand across his mouth and trying to screw the top back onto his water bottle with one hand. “Soaps, yeah.”

It's not a total lie — it's just that Jack’s family had never been much for TV watching. So Jack can't say whether he likes soap operas or not because, well… he's never seen them. They enjoyed the occasional movie and had a healthy diet of Netflix and televised baseball games, but that was pretty much the extent of it. So Jack can talk pretty much endlessly about the Cubs, but serial TV is practically a foreign entity.

But Gabriel seems to like them, and Jack has this weird, fluttering desire for Gabriel to like _him_ , so…

“Sure,” he says, clearing his throat again as he finally manages to screw the cap back on. “I like them.”

He clears his throat, eyes fixed on the TV as he tries to look engaged, but he can feel Gabriel’s eyes on him. When he finally gives up, both unable to understand what's going on and utterly perplexed by the emotional editing flashing across the screen, he turns to see Gabriel watching him.

And Gabriel —

Gabriel has his legs stretched out comfortably in front of him, crossed at the ankle and slung atop the large, busted footrest in front of him. He's angled towards Jack, tucked against the fluffy couch cushions with his chin resting in one hand and elbow perched on the back of the couch. He's dressed comfortably, sweats and a T-shirt and an unzipped hoodie, soft and open and impossibly warm.

And behind his hand, so gentle Jack can barely believe it, Gabriel is smiling, eyes crinkled at the corners as they watch the vibrating, nervous energy that is Jack on the other end of the couch.

Gabriel is an angel, haloed by the gentle glow of the TV and the ambiance of his own smile. And Jack won't let himself believe it, but Gabriel is almost looking at Jack like he really means something.

Jack swallows and forces himself to take several large, mental steps back.

“What?” He asks, voice faint and audibly embarrassed. Panicking in the face of the entity that is Gabriel Reyes. He squashes the little part of himself that wants to bask in the attention.

“You're a bad liar. You've never seen a soap opera, have you?” Gabe’s voice is uneven with laughter and impossibly light, like he's delighted to have caught Jack in his lie. Jack’s heart thumps once, a titter of nerves and something a little warmer. His face is hot.

“No,” he admits, pulling his knees in to his chest as if he could hide behind them. The couch armrest is soft against the small of his back. “Sorry.”

“No reason to be sorry,” Gabriel chuckles, shaking his head. “Just means I've got my work cut out for me.”

Jack blinks, brow furrowing as he parses through the myriad of ways that Gabriel’s words could be interpreted. In the end, all he comes up with is a very eloquent, croaky: “What?”

“I can't, in good conscience, let you continue on without introducing you to the world of the telenovela,” Gabriel says dramatically, sweeping a lazy hand towards the television. The smile that he offers Jack is crooked and makes his heart burn a little bit. “It's my civic duty.”

“Were you a theater kid?” Jack asks bluntly. “You strike me as a theater kid.”

“And _you_ , my friend, are uncultured,” Gabriel accuses, pointing a rather dramatic finger at Jack. “Come on, man, I'm trying to be friendly, here.”

“Total theater kid,” Jack doubles down, unable to hold back a grin. “I bet you were the star of the spring musi- _cal_.”

Gabriel sighs and slumps back against his armrest, one arm thrown over his eyes. Now he's just playing it up, but Jack can't say he isn't enjoying it; the sight of Gabriel playing the fool for Jack’s amusement is a weird combination of endearing and exasperating. It's doing weird flippy things to his chest.

“Alright, _Johnathan Fitzgerald Morrison_ —”

Jack splutters.

“—I see how it is,” Gabriel pronounces each syllable to the point of absolute ludicry.

“My middle name is not _Fitzgerald_ —”

“High School Prom King, captain of the Football team. Mocking _me_ for enjoying my high school experience.”

“And my first name is not Johnathan,” Jack is laughing, and he can see a smile poking out from beneath Gabriel’s arm. Jack just barely resists the urge to kick at Gabriel, both because he's so wrong and also to get him to look up at Jack again. “Did you really enjoy your high school experience?”

“Fuck no,” Gabriel says emphatically.

“But you were a theater kid?”

Gabriel wrinkles his nose and finally lifts his head off the armrest, scrunching his eyes tight as he readjusts against the couch. He grunts when his neck cracks.

“I mean, technically. Never was an actor, but I did backstage stuff,” Gabriel corrects, rubbing his neck and crooking it to the side so it cracks again. “Lights and shit. Costuming.”

“Wow,” Jack drawls, deadpan. “You make it sound so riveting. I feel inspired. I think the stage is calling me.”

“Oh, shut up. We can't all be star athletes, Johnathan,” Gabriel said airily, flourishing his hand again.

“For the record, I wasn't a star _anything_ ,” Jack rolls his eyes and flaps a hand as if he could physically bat Gabriel’s misconception away. He ignores the purposeful use of the misnomer. “Nor was I a prom king. I didn’t even go to prom.”

“Yeah, right,” Gabriel snorts. “You just used the word ‘nor’ in casual conversation. Plus, I don't know if you've noticed, but the label Golden Boy seems to stick to you like glue. Golden Boy.”

“Ugh,” Jack grimaces. “Seriously?”

“I'm just saying,” Gabriel holds up his hands, palms facing Jack. “You've got the nicest teeth I've ever seen, and you've got a very punchable face. In a good way,” Gabriel backtracks quickly, and Jack catches his quick glance to Jack’s purpling nose and eyes, “The, uh, best way possible.”

Jack really isn't sure how to take that. He tilts his head, eyes narrowed, and crosses his arms. Gabriel just watches him, looking just guilty enough that any anger that Jack may have felt at the admission dies before taking root.

_Teasing. Just teasing._

Jack taps the fingertips of one hand against a bicep. When he sighs, shoulders dropping as the tension drops from his muscles, Gabriel visibly relaxes into the couch.

“Sorry,” Jack exhales, catching his bottom lip between his teeth. “Feeling a little sensitive, I guess.”

He tips his head back, mirroring Gabriel’s actions from earlier, and sinks down against the armrest. The ceiling above him is a stark, pockmarked gray.

“It's fine, man,” Gabriel answers, still sounding a bit guilty. “I should — it's my bad.”

“Don't worry about it.” Jack huffs a dry laugh. “Besides, as I’m sure you can tell, someone already beat you to it. Multiple times, in fact. So you're, uh… definitely not wrong. About the punching my face thing.”

“ _Beat_ me to it,” Gabriel chuckles as if he can’t help it, lifting his hands again in a meek shrug out of place on someone with such broad shoulders. “They sure did, huh?”

Jack glowers at him.

“Oh, come on! Silver platter, Jack.”

Jack rolls his eyes, ignoring how much he enjoys hearing his name on Gabriel’s tongue, because _damn it_ , it wasn’t even that good a joke. 

He continues to glare until Gabriel relents.

“I don't actually wanna punch you,” Gabriel quietly clarifies. 

Jack briefly throws his gaze skyward.

“Yeah, well, I kinda wanna punch you. Especially since you made that shitty joke,” Jack gripes, tipping one corner of his mouth up and lowering his chin just a bit so that Gabriel will know he's joking. Gabriel’s laugh, hesitant but genuine when it comes a few heartbeats later, is warm. Like a breath of fresh air, it banishes some of the tense energy from the room.

“That's fair,” Gabriel concedes. Jack lifts his head to look at Gabriel, inquisitive. Gabriel shrugs and wags his brows in an overblown way that only serves to make Jack’s smile grow.

“Theater kid,” Jack mumbles, something like fondness resonating beneath the words.

“So was it some kinda accident?” Gabriel asks, and the sudden change in subject suspends Jack in conversational limbo for a long moment. He stares at Gabriel, neck craning to look him in the eye, and only understands when Gabriel thumbs gently at his own nose.

“The mats can get scrappy,” Gabriel clarifies. “Broken noses aren't exactly uncommon.”

Jack wants to laugh, some sort of hollow amusement crinkling unpleasantly in the hollow of his throat. If only that's all it was — a misplaced punch, a wayward kick. Anything other than the constant threat that looms on Jack’s horizons.

Jack’s head falls back against the armrest. He exhales forcefully.

“Yeah,” Jack sighs. The ceiling above him doesn't look so far away. He wants to lift a hand to try to touch it, even though he knows he couldn't actually reach. “I was, uh — I was too slow.”

Gabriel hums. The sound of fingertips thrumming against polyester echoes from his side of the couch, low and grounding. The TV hums in the background.

The silence that stretches between them is delicate, a web woven in the pause between sentences; between subjects blooming like olive branches amidst minefields. Jack doesn't want to speak, to break the quiet that has blanketed he and Gabriel in white noise thick enough to feel. Evidently, Gabriel doesn't either; the only sounds that echo from him are his own breaths, even and deep, harmonizing with the melody of refrigerator static and beating hearts.

Jack and comfort have never quite seen eye to eye. He's always found the proverbial pea beneath the mattresses; no matter how good things may seem, he’s always had a knack for picking out flaws. It's not something he's proud of; in fact, if he could trade his pickiness away, he'd do so in a heartbeat. To not feel upended at the drop of a hat? What he wouldn't trade away for that.

But this, sitting quietly with Gabriel with nothing between them but space, is comfortable. The polyester couch is springy and collapsing, the TV is staticky and old, and the refrigerator is loud as all hell — but Jack is comfortable. Things that would normally swap his blood for electricity are simply ambiance. They exist alongside Jack, not in opposition.

It's then that, inexplicably, he realizes that he feels _safe_ , sitting here with Gabriel. The same warmth that he’d felt in the bathroom with his head pillowed in Gabriel’s lap has settled anew in his lungs, gentle and glowing and soft. Without his realizing, Gabriel has established himself as a pillar in Jack’s turbulent life — an anchor that seems to always steady him when he needs it most.

Jack would chalk it up to the simple fact that Gabriel is his only consistent source of stability — the only person in this whole base that seems to freely and willingly give Jack his time. He still isn't sure why, but he also feels reluctant to question it; almost as if the second he does, Gabriel will vanish into smoke and leave Jack just as alone as before. It doesn't seem like it can be real — good things like Gabriel just don't happen to Jack — but it is. Impossibly.

He tells himself he's overthinking it. Clinging to someone and woefully misreading their sparse interactions. Wishing for something that simply doesn't exist, and reading between lines that have no space between them. A desperate man seeking connection.

And, yet.

Jack pulls himself upright, elbows resting on the armrest and legs tucked in, and smiles at Gabriel.

“So. We were talking about soap operas?”

Gabriel grins back and grabs the remote. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was saving this for Christmas, but it turns out I’m working on Christmas, so here you go. Bone apple tooth 
> 
> This one was fun (and so, so hard) to write. Hopefully it shows Jack’s personality emerging a lil bit now that he’s becoming comfy around our boy Gabe. Also I only recently realized just how long this damn thing is. Wowza. You’re all champs for sticking with me. More Gabe on the horizon, I promise. 
> 
> Either way, I sincerely hope that you enjoy this kinda long chapter. BIG BIG THANKS to everyone who’s commented, bookmarked, or dropped a kudos on this thing - y’all keep me motivated. Words cannot describe how much I appreciate the feedback and support <3
> 
> Enjoy the holidays! See you soon :)


	11. take all your time

Jack’s sleep schedule doesn't improve much over the next few months. He manages to carve out at least a solid five hours most nights, but the fact that he doesn't sleep at all in between them means that the bags etched beneath his eyes never really lessen. He's strung out, driven into anxiety-ridden loops from man who sleeps in the bed across the room from his, from the disgusting state of his room and the bright unyielding lights of the halls, from the way that he can't go a day without being pushed into a corner, metaphorically or physically.

At one point, he spends close to an hour fishing all the garbage and old dirty clothes out from the crevices of his dorm. He piles everything into the shared waste-bin and put it by the door, the chronic knot in his chest easing at the sight of their floor uncovered.

That night, Fir had walked in, looked Jack in the eye, and kicked the full garbage can into the far wall.

And Jack just… gives up after that.

But it's fine. As long as he’s not dizzy or too detached from reality to run drills (and avoid Fir and his trope of assholes), then as far as Jack’s concerned, he's doing quite well for himself.

“You're too skinny.”

His medic — Dr. Philips, he knows now, and it had been embarrassing to ask since he's pretty sure that she told Jack her name on day one and he just wasn't listening — pokes at his ribs. Her brow is drawn into a look of concern; a look that always seems to form whenever Jack is in her line of sight.

Jack glances down at his abdomen. He's a little thin, sure, but he definitely wouldn't classify himself as skinny. Fit, definitely — he doesn't think he's ever been in better shape. Those drills have certainly been good for something. He sucks in his gut, just to tease Philips, but her expression only grows darker at the concave shape of his abdomen.

“I'm fine,” he assures her, relaxing. “I know you've seen my scores, because I'm pretty sure you read my file like it's the daily news. I'm obviously fine.”

Philips purses her lips and ignores him.

“Scores equate performance, not health. You look… hungry. And skinny.” She reaches up to thumb at the jut of his cheekbones. Jack pushes her arm away, grabbing his shirt from the table beside him and wrestling it over his head.

“I'm not skinny, doc,” he says, head popping out from the top of his shirt. He grins at her, and she twists her mouth into a frustrated grimace. “I'm _lean_.”

“No, you're _skinny_ ,” she copies his tone, and then tsk's and helps him locate his left sleeve. “And you look exhausted. Are you getting enough sleep? You're certainly not eating enough. Are you following the regimen in your handout? Someone of your height and stature shouldn't be weighing in below —”

He cuts off her rant with an upward glance. “Yes, I'm following the regimen.” When he can hold it down, that is. He’s found that being sleep-deprived makes carbo-loading a bit difficult. “And yes, I sleep enough.” To function, at least.

“I wish you would tell me what's got you so worked up,” she sighs. “You're obviously not at peak performance, but you're doing well enough that I can't force you to tell me what's wrong, can I?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” he exhales forcefully, the sigh petering off into a raspberry. “I'll eat a little more, okay? I promise.”

She purses her lips, adjusting the hem of his shirt so it lies flat. The lines around her mouth and the motherly thoughtlessness of the action sends a pang of homesickness through Jack’s chest.

“I promise,” Jack drawls. “Pinky swear.”

“Pinky swear, he says,” Philips huffs and pulls her hands away from his shirt. She pokes a finger into his chest, the action just sharp enough that he feels it. “I'm holding you to it, Jack.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

—

“You're… hmm. You look skinny.”

Jack's nightly routines are simple. He eats, tries not to pass out in the shower, gets ready whatever needs to be gotten ready for the next morning, avoids his roommate, and, sometimes, he looks for Gabriel.

Well, maybe not sometimes. It's more of an every night thing, to be honest. Gabriel isn't always there, but Jack makes it a point to pass by the little room and at least look. He's never admit to doing it, but he still does.

It's just so calming, the hum of the TV and the fridge and Gabriel’s voice. He can't help but want to be around it all the time, even when Gabriel drives him up the wall and back. There's just this undeniable _ease_ between them that Jack hasn't felt in a long, long time. Even when Gabriel pokes fun, even when he makes Jack red-faced and flustered, Jack still finds himself wanting to open up in return.

Being around Gabriel is like lifting a weight from his shoulders. His breathing gets easier, his stomach less hollow. Inexplicably, within the shadows and the gentle hum of their little room, Jack starts feeling more like himself. He takes and returns wisecracks without panicking, he stops flinching every time he and Gabe brush against one another. He even starts _enjoying_ the tactile nature of Gabriel, the way that Gabe naturally reaches for him for no purpose other than to reach.

Jack won't let himself admit it, but it's nice.

In their space, with Gabriel beside him, Jack just _exists_. As simple as that sounds, it sometimes feels like something monumental.

They're in their usual spots on the collapsing couch, Jack to the right and Gabriel on the left. Gabriel sits facing forward, legs splayed out on the futon in front of the couch, and Jack sits facing him, back against the armrest and legs folded in. It's their routine, comfortable and simple, both dressed in sweats and often fighting to keep their eyes open.

Jack throws up his hands in a burst of exasperation. “God. Not you, too.”

Gabriel lifts his water bottle to his lips, grinning behind the plastic neck. He takes a sip and then caps it and sets it on the floor. “Philips ragging on you?”

“Doggedly.”

Gabriel barks a laugh. “She's right, though. You need to eat more, man.”

Jack glowers and shoves at Gabriel with his foot, the sole connecting solidly with his shoulder. Gabe doesn't even flinch, laughing as Jack half heartedly jostles him.

“If I ate any more,” Jack says, matter of fact, “I'd puke after every meal. Some of us don't actually have bottomless stomachs, believe it or not.”

“I can't help but feel that that was a dig,” Gabriel scoffs. “My ego is wounded.”

Gabriel grabs Jack’s offending foot by the ankle and places it in his lap. Jack’s heart skips a little and he pulls out of his grip, tucking his legs in close again. Gabriel chuckles but doesn't try to pull him back in.

Jack’s still a little skittish with casual touch, and what only makes it worse is Gabriel’s insistence on it. Jack glares at him from his side of the couch and resists the urge to kick him again.

“Everything's always gotta be about you, huh?” Jack gripes, resting his chin on his knees.

Gabe rolls his eyes. “Okay, first of all? Yes. Secondly, you should probably talk to someone about that because I'm almost two hundred percent sure that _unceasing hunger_ is supposed to be a side effect of, you know, this whole shishkabang. Cells working at one hundred fifty percent and all that.”

Gabriel’s hands animate the entirety of his explanation. Jack tries very hard not to find that endearing.

“Okay, mom. Thanks. I'll totally do that.”

“I'm gonna kick your ass, rookie.”

Gabe lunges at him without actually moving his legs, arms jokingly outstretched and hands swiping, and Jack wards him off easily with a foot to his sternum.

“Please, have mercy!” Jack crows, narrowly dodging a wide smack to his head. “I'm so frail, you'll break me! Get it? ‘Cause I don't eat enough. Fuck you.”

Gabe relents, the couch creaking beneath him as he falls back into his spot. “You're an idiot.”

Jack doesn't hesitate. “ _You're_ an idiot.”

For some unfathomable reason, that makes Gabriel laugh, big booming cackles that easily drown out any remaining sound from the droning TV. It's infectious. Jack grins and manages a chuckle or two of his own, unable to resist sharing in the simple joy radiating from Gabriel’s expression.

It's so unspeakably nice.

Gabriel swipes at his eyes as his guffaws fade into wheezy giggles. His laugh lines make Jack’s chest feel warm.

“It wasn't that funny,” Jack can't help but say, voice hiccuped by his own traitorous laughter. Gabriel just shakes his head and leans back against the couch, exhaling loudly. His face tilts towards Jack’s and when their eyes meet anew, his smile returns full force.

“What?”

“Nothing, it's just — your shiner. Very cute. Brings out the blue in your eyes.”

Jack lifts a hand to trace the bruise coloring his cheekbone. They heal faster than they used to — this one should be yellow by the morning and gone by the evening — but it makes the awkward, swollen in-between much more intensely purple than what's normal. He probably looks like an idiot.

Jack’s face heats and he kicks at Gabe again. “Shut up.”

“No, it's cute!” Gabe insists, trying and failing to keep a straight face as he says it. “Seriously! The purple and red against your awful eye bags? Very _avant-garde_.”

Jack kicks him again. This time, when Gabriel grabs his ankle and places Jack’s foot in his lap, Jack lets him with minimal struggle. Gabriel’s thigh is warm and firm beneath his heel. He regrets it moments later when Gabriel immediately starts rubbing absent-minded circles into his skin; the gentle pressure makes Jack feel nervous for some reason.

“Touchy,” Jack mutters under his breath. Gabe just grins and abruptly digs his thumbs into the meat of Jack’s arch.

“Ow, fuck!” Jack yanks his foot away. He stares at Gabriel, who is trying and failing to smother a laugh, and then kicks him again for good measure. The giggles bubble over, and then Gabe is grabbing Jack’s foot and gingerly placing it back into his lap.

“Next time, I'll break your nose,” Jack warns when the giggles die down again. It's hard to not smile when Gabriel looks at him like that, delighted and heavy-lidded and open, but his foot is still stinging and also Gabriel is kind of a dick.

“Sure thing, Morrison,” Gabe rolls his eyes and resumes his gentle massage of Jack’s ankle. Jack resists the resurgent urge to yank his foot away and forces himself to relax, tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling. Gabe hums.

“Okay, but seriously, Jack,”

Jack looks back up, one brow lifted in inquiry. Gabe leans towards him, reaching out a hand as if to grab at his face, but Jack immediately slaps it away.

“Oh, you big baby,” Gabe huffs, undeterred as he continues to grab at Jack’s chin. “C’mere.”

“Gabriel —” Jack complains, but then Gabe has him caught by the back of his neck and is pulling him into his space, and Jack's brain sort of shorts out.

His brain flashes back to the bathroom, to the feeling of warm thighs beneath his head, to gentle touches to his back, his hands, his hair. To the way that Gabe had looked when they first met, washed out beneath blinding LEDs, willing to try and chip away at the walls that inevitably confronted him. To now, to their late night meetings, the shared couch, the way they touch without really touching at all.

All of it, culminated.

Gabriel’s hand is warm against his neck, fingers curling in a way that is both firm and breakable; holding him steady without holding him down. From this distance, Jack can see the faint flecks of gold in his eyes, can smell the citrus and cinnamon scent of his skin. A curl falls over his brow that Jack finds himself wanting to brush away.

Gabe exhales, brows furrowed, and his other hand lifts to cup Jack’s cheek. His thumb gently strokes the skin beneath Jack’s left eye, and Jack’s heart stops.

They stare at each other for a long moment, neither moving, neither blinking.

“Why is it that every time I see you,” Gabe says, voice dialed low and quiet. The corner of his mouth twitches up into a tired smile. “You've got a big ol’ bruise on your face?”

The warmth smokes from Jack’s stomach like a blown out match.

The bruises are as much a part of Jack’s SEP experience as are the blood tests and growing pains. His healing factor takes care of them quickly, but in opposition, he seems to bruise far more easily than he used to. A sharp hip check to a table had practically given him a fucking hematoma.

On one hand, his hipbones — and his spine, _Jesus_ , if he falls on his back one more fucking time it's gonna tear right through his skin — protrude perhaps a bit more than they should, but that doesn't much help his weight argument, so he ignores that little factor of the equation.

The bruises to his face, though? Those are a product of one thing, and one thing only. Either it's shitty, guilty self-preservation or an asshole with a vendetta, take your pick, Jack has decided that letting Fir win during their obligatory spars is easier than sticking it to him. If the potshots to the face are a part of it, and so far they have been, he's just gotta take the black eyes and busted lips and move the hell on. Better a smug roommate than a vengeful one.

At least he's learning to take a beating. Or, well, becoming more accustomed to it, but what's the difference, really.

Jack slowly leans back, dislodging the hand on his cheek, but Gabe’s grip on his nape stays firm. Jack swallows, meets Gabriel’s eyes — how soft they are, edged with something far too close to concern for Jack’s liking — and redirects.

“It’s a fetish,” Jack whispers, his voice a teasing rendition of Gabriel’s gentility, “you normie.”

Gabriel groans in fake disgust and this time Jack is the one being shoved away. The skin of his neck feels cold as Gabe moves his hand to the center of Jack’s chest and pushes. Jack can't help but laugh, bubbling and nervous but completely genuine in a way that makes him a little breathless.

“I knew it,” Gabe scoffs. “You seem like the type to be a closet freak. Something about your haircut.”

“Gabe, I hate to break this to you,” Jack giggles, fighting and failing to affect a serious demeanor, “I really do, this actually hurts me to say. But I have to tell you: we have the same haircut.”

Jack’s watching Gabriel for once, studying the creases of his laugh lines and the shine in his eyes, so he sees the exact moment that Gabriel freezes. His smile fades away into something slack and unreadable. His hand against Jack’s chest goes stiff. After a beat of silence, Gabriel inhales, sharp and sudden, and Jack realizes that he'd been looking not at Jack, but somewhere far away.

“…You okay?” Jack asks, faulting and uncertain. He feels like they're back in the track room, his feet on fire and his voice a wavering mess. Concern weighs out over stripped confidence, and he reaches up to lightly rest his fingers against Gabriel’s wrist.

The action seems to shake Gabriel free of whatever took hold of him. “You called me Gabe,” he says simply, a fact unquestioned.

Jack’s brow furrows, and then his eyes widen in realization. His tongue feels thick but he speaks anyways, tripping over himself to apologize, make it right, do _something_.

“Shit, I'm — I'm sorry,” He's babbling, hands fluttering anxiously over Gabe’s — _Gabriel’s_ — wrist, hand still pressed lightly into Jack’s sternum. “Is that okay? It just came out and — _shit_ —”

Jack scrambles to his feet. Gabriel straightens up, those dark eyes wide in surprise, and immediately reaches for him. Jack flinches when strong fingers tightly encircle his forearm.

“Woah, woah, woah,” Gabriel sounds startled, his grip on Jack unyielding despite the confusion in his voice. Jack goes easily when Gabe tugs him back towards the couch. “You're fine, man. You're fine. It's fine. Really. It's okay.”

And Jack doesn't believe him. Of course Gabriel would say it's okay — he's too kind, has always been too kind when it comes to dealing with Jack. Jack, who, like an idiot, overstepped. Made this thing between them out to be something greater than it is. He almost wants Gabriel to shred him for his assumed familiarity; to kick him out or laugh in his face, to tear apart this thing between them and leave Jack to pick up the pieces.

Because that would be more — more familiar, than whatever this is. _This_ being the grip on his arm, the look of thinly-concealed shock in Gabriel’s expression; the warmth of Gabriel’s skin against his, not allowing him to go.

Telling him to stay.

Jack levels Gabriel with a steely look, narrow eyed and perplexed as all hell, and Gabriel meets it evenly with his own brow-furrowed confusion. They stare each other down for a solid ten seconds before Jack’s gaze drops to the floor, wrung-out and frustrated with no one but himself.

“I'm sorry,” he mumbles.

Gabriel sighs and tries to pull him back down to the couch, which Jack resists with grounded feet.

“Jack,” He says sharply, “It's fine. You just… I dunno. Took me by surprise.”

Jack screws his eyes shut. “I'm sorry.”

Gabriel — well, the closest approximation would probably be a growl. “Jack, it's _fine_.”

“Then why did you look at me like that?” Jack looks up, challenging, but withers easily when met with nothing but Gabriel’s open, earnest attention. It's too much — like staring into the sun.

“Like what?” Gabriel asks, patient.

“Like… Like…” Jack scrapes his free hand through his hair, noting distantly that he's probably due for a haircut. “I don't know.”

“Like… I was surprised?”

“Yes? No. I don't know.”

“Jack, no one calls me Gabe. Well, no one around here, anyways,” Gabriel explains, and Jack’s heart sinks into his toes. He's such an idiot. There's a reason why Jack has spent his life avoiding assumptions about other people, and here he is, ignoring that rule the one time that he should have stuck to it like glue.

Jack is silent, eyes fixed on somewhere to Gabriel’s near left. Gabriel lets him sulk for a few more moments before renewing his tugging, trying to yank Jack back down onto the couch. It doesn't work at first, but Gabriel doesn't stop pulling until Jack actually becomes worried for his shoulder. He sits heavily and the whole couch creaks, but Gabriel nods and smiles in this self-satisfied way that, for a moment, makes Jack glad that he didn't run.

But then he remembers why he stood up in the first place and groans, tipping his head forward into his hands.

“I'm sorry,” Jack groans, “I won't do it again.”

Gabriel exhales sharply. “Jack, shut _up_. I told you it's fine. You can call me Gabe. I don't mind.”

Jack knows pandering when he hears it. He looks up sharply, angry at Gabriel’s acquiescence, at his own desire to take advantage of it without question. To become closer by actually doing the opposite, because something superficial is better than nothing at all. He's not a child desperate for attention; he can take a rejection. He can take a wall of glass.

“Then why did you react like that?” Jack shakes his head. “If it's no big deal, why did you react like I — like I — “ He gestures at Gabriel, who only blinks and squints at the offending hand, “— like that?”

“Like what?” Gabriel asks, taking hold of Jack’s hands again. Jack's too worked up to pull away.

Jack swallows, looking down at where Gabriel's grip slips up to hold his wrists, caging them lightly with calloused palms.

“Like I hit you,” he admits quietly, attention struck by the contrast of Gabriel’s skin against his own. The way Gabriel’s thumb presses into the pulse point of his right hand.

“Look, it's just —” Gabriel sighs, and Jack returns his full attention to the man before him. “It's what my family calls me. Okay? It's always been the name that I only let my family use for me. Used to react pretty… uh, _unfavorably_ to people I didn't know well who threw it around. Don't ask why, there's probably some sort of conclusion to be drawn there about building walls or something stupid that a therapist would have a field day over. But that's — that's the thing. It's the whole “but my friends call me Gabe”, except not, and I'm talking myself in circles here trying to make myself look at all reasonable about this.”

Gabriel cuts himself off with an inhale. This time, he's the one who looks away, down and to the side, and Jack is the one left trying to catch his attention. And, because he can't stand to see Gabriel looking so lost — _he’s_ supposed to be the mess, goddamn it — he flips his hands over to grasp Gabriel’s wrists, a mirror of Gabriel’s grip, and squeezes.

Gabriel looks up then, eyes wide, and Jack realizes with a start that this is the first time that he's initiated this kind of contact. Skin on skin, gentle grip, purposeful. Holding Gabriel’s hands because he wants to. Because he thinks that Gabriel would want him to, too.

Maybe it should feel monumental, but it doesn't. It just feels right.

“So…” Jack prompts. Gabriel blinks from his wide-eyed stupor, and if it wasn't for the dim light, Jack would think that there was a faint blush coloring his cheeks.

“ _So_ …” Gabriel coughs and clears his throat, tugging his hands away from Jack’s. There's a spark of something like disappointment in Jack’s chest, but then Gabriel turns to lean back against the couch and pulls Jack down with him to rest in the crook of his arm, and the feeling is snuffed out before it ever takes root.

“So,” Gabriel says, eyes carefully averted, “It was surprising, but… and God, this makes me sound like a fucking sap, but hearing you say it made me feel a little bit like being home again. It was nice. Stop looking at me like that.”

Jack realizes that he's grinning just as Gabriel turns to glower at him. He tucks his legs under him and shifts to face Gabriel, leaning his shoulder into the arm that Gabriel has thrown over the back of the couch. “Just a little bit?”

Gabriel rolls his eyes, but his own grin betrays him. “Shut up or I'll give you a shiner in your good eye too.”

“Joke’s on you, I’ve got terrible vision. No good eyes here.”

Gabe chuckles and tips his head back. His eyes slip closed, mouth still curled into a gentle smile, and Jack feels a rush of something warm and affectionate light up his stomach.

“But, um —” Jack stammers. Gabriel opens one eye and looks at him. “Thanks.”

Gabriel opens his other eye and lifts a brow. He tilts his head to get a better look at Jack. “For what?”

Jack shrugs, and is honest when he answers: “I dunno.”

Gabriel snorts and closes his eyes again, settling further into the couch. “You're a piece of work, Morrison.”

Jack shimmies down the back of the couch so that he can rest his head on Gabriel’s forearm. “And yet you put up with me.”

“What can I say? I'm a saint.”

“You're an angel, Gabriel.”

“Well, what are friends for? And call me Gabe, Jack. We just had a bonding moment over that, for chrissake.”

Jack’s chest is blooming. Friends. Gabe. Jack and Gabe. The planes of Gabriel’s face warping under the soft glow of the TV. The fan of his eyelashes over his cheekbones, the groomed scruff of his facial hair. The hum of the fridge wrapping them in white noise comfort. The warmth of Gabriel’s hoodie, his arm trapped beneath Jack’s cheek.

Static in his lungs. Something warm and soft in his chest.

“Gabe,” he murmurs, just because he can.

“Mm.”

“Gabe.”

“Yep.”

“Gabe.”

“Shut up, kid.”

But Gabriel is smiling, eyes closed and breathing even, and Jack smiles too, wide enough to hurt.

They fall asleep that way, blanketed in each other, and for a few hours, Jack's chest is light, and everything feels okay.

—

Gabriel becomes a constant.

He'd already been for a while, to be quite honest, but it was more that Jack didn't let himself see it. He's become used to people coming and going; being comfortable with uncertain and hesitant Jack, and not smartass Jack with a big mouth, stupid humor, and a needy streak. The Jack he becomes when he's comfortable, when he's trusting. When he's himself.

But Gabriel takes everything Jack gives him and then some. He pokes fun at his protruding ribs but pries him with granola bars and contraband electrolyte drinks. He scoffs at Jack’s pathetic deadlift but remarks with pride on the new muscles in Jack’s shoulders. He laughs when Jack says something stupid but gives him space to reword it. He doesn't get cagey when Jack backs off from touches, only waits for him to press back in with open arms and a careful smile.

Gabriel — _Gabe_ — is good. He's good.

They’re good.

So when Gabriel stops showing up to their little room, Jack wonders what the hell he did to ruin it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about that ending, but hey,
> 
> JACK IS GAY CAN YOU BELIEVE
> 
> I went to sacanime this weekend and all I can say is I wish that blizzard had unleashed r76 hell on me when I was around other r76 fans. I feel marooned rn. My twitter timeline is a whole mess. On the bright side, it helped inspire me to finally finish this longer than expected chapter, and I’ve even already got a good chunk of the next one done too. Thank god for inspirational flashes.
> 
> Anyways, I hope y’all had a good holiday! As usual, thank you for all the support — I’m your typical insecure writer, so every comment and kudos mean the world to me! I hope to see you again soon, but until then, stay safe, stay posi, and have a good week!


	12. at the divide

Jack had grown used to counting his days on the basis of seeing Gabriel at the ends of some of them, so hours stretch into eons once Gabriel just disappears.

Maybe _disappear_ isn't the right word, but it sure feels that way. It's like he never existed in the first place, aside from the hollowness that Jack feels at his no longer being around. The worst part is that, with Gabriel gone, Jack starts to realize just how little he knows about him. He knows his favorite TV show, his favorite Gatorade flavor — grape, because what the fuck else, — that he wears a beanie at night because he gets cold easily, that he never skips leg day.

But Jack doesn't know where Gabe grew up. Jack doesn't know if he has family back home, what his favorite kind of weather is, if he's a dog or a cat person, what color his eyes are. He's had glimpses — high school anecdotes, references to a life past lived — but he doesn't know who _Gabriel_ is. Why did he join the SEP? Who does he see himself becoming?

It's a hard night when Jack, bleary-eyed-wandering the halls in the dead morning hours, realizes that he doesn't even know Gabriel’s room number.

—

“You look lost.”

“It's always something, isn't it, doc?” Jack says tiredly, but not even he can deny the dryness of his eyes and the pull of the bags beneath them as he looks at Philips.

The good doctor, ever mothering and stern, finishes clipping Jack’s IV bag to its stand and sits down on her swivel stool. She presses her lips into a tight frown, clipboard immobile in her hands as she studies the tense line of Jack’s body. The bag, hooked up to the back of his right hand, slowly empties into his vein. Jack finds himself counting down the drips.

“There doesn't have to be,” she says.

Jack doesn't answer, reading one of the cluttered eyesight test posters on the far wall. He reads the big E, and the second line below that, but trying much more than that makes something painful twinge behind his eyes. Everything on the right side of the room goes blurry for the briefest of seconds.

“The last injection made me sick,” he says thoughtlessly, and his brain jumps to his most recent bathroom excursion; of a week ago, of his head deep in a toilet, of vomiting up bile and water and the remains of his dinner. He'd felt sick as a fucking dog, teary and exhausted and run down to his bones, and all he'd been able to think about was how much he wished that Gabe would find him again.

Of course he hadn't. It had been a stupid thought.

Philips nods and marks something on her clipboard but doesn't comment aside from that. Instead, she goes back to observing Jack, eyes steely and jaw tight in a way that reminds him far too much of his mother.

He could ask her, he realizes. He could ask Philips if she knows who Gabriel is, where he is, why he's there. If he's around or if he left the base completely, a clean break from SEP and the soldiers still trapped within its walls. She might know; she might even tell Jack what she knows.

Or she might look at him with pity, lean forward in her chair, and ask him questions that, at this point, he has no idea how to answer.

He closes his eyes and tries to sleep, but all he can think about is Gabriel and the foreign substance running in his blood.

—

It takes a few weeks for Jack to realize that Gabriel is actually gone. For him to stop lurking the halls around their little room, for him to stop trying to pretend that Gabriel will suddenly appear and things will go right back to normal.

He spends several nights crying in the bathroom, several more nights staring blankly at the ceiling above his bed, and then a week in arrested restlessness, tossing and turning his sheets into moguls until he forces himself to his feet.

He can't go to the treadmills, but the track — the track is untouched. He runs until his knees are numb and his lungs burn into ash.

—

Jack’s palms are burning as he grasps the next handhold, one knee knocking into the hard stone of the climbing wall as he pushes himself up another few feet. He pauses for a moment to glance back at the busy climbing gym, arms straight, back bowed.

He's thinking about Gabe again. He does it all the time these days, much to his own annoyance. Jack’s always been one for pining, always been one to get sucked a little too deep into his own feelings. It comes with all the other things that his psyche dumps on him, like the hypersensitivities and the panic attacks. Just one piece of a bigger puzzle.

But this? He's long become irritated by his own inability to move on from Gabriel Reyes.

Jack grabs another handhold and digs in the pads of his fingers, hefting himself higher even as the wall bows out. His feet catch on the slight divots.

They hadn't even known each other for that long. A couple months, sure, but time goes quickly when your entire anatomy is being rewritten. There's no reason for Jack to be so attached. For him to _allow_ himself to feel so attached to the specter that Gabe has become.

The red tape outlining the path to the top winks at him, reflecting the harsh lights above, and he's thinking about Gabriel again. Because he's angry. He's moved past the desperation, the abandonment, the “why me” mentality that plagued him for the first few weeks after Gabriel’s departure, and now he's angry.

Anger isn't something he's very fluent in. Jack knows lots of other burning feelings, but he's never been quick to anger. Frustration, sure. Agitation, definitely. But anger is something that settles like needles in his lungs. Something that feels heavy and uneven on his shoulders.

Jack finally makes it over the protrusion in the wall and takes a moment to rest on the new incline, shaking out each of his knees as he looks up at the twisting pattern of red tape.

The worst part, he thinks as he slides his hand into the next hold, is that he isn't even angry with Gabriel. He's angry with himself for not getting over it — for becoming so attached, for allowing himself to place all his eggs in the basket that is Gabriel Reyes. It's all his fault, really, for getting his heart broken.

And woah, _back up_. He scales the next few feet easily, stretching his arms as the path gets wider and the holds grow fewer. He's not _broken-hearted_ over Gabriel. No way in hell. They hadn't known each other long enough for something like that.

But every time he remembers the way that Gabriel said his name; every time he remembers the feeling of this skin against Jack’s; every time he thinks of the way that Gabriel’s laugh sounded, bright and infectious and enough to make Jack feel like he can do anything —

Jack shakes his head and pushes off in a lunge that he never would have attempted, let alone managed, this far up the wall before the SEP loaded him with serums and turned him into someone else. He scrabbles but he lands it, fingers firm in the shallow depths of a rocky crevice, his feet braced and steady.

He can do this. He can do _this_.

He locks down on the wall, gets his feet solidly beneath him and pushes up, and just like that, he's at the top, slapping the flat edge of the ceiling and panting like he's just run several miles. His hands burn and his forearms are going to be sore as hell in a few hours.

But he made it.

The view from the top is nothing to write home about, but nevertheless, it's the top. Nowhere to go from there but back to the bottom.

Jack tilts his head back, looking out instead of down, and pushes off the wall to belay to the padded floor.

He sucks in breath after breath, counting sheep on the exhales, and manages to not think about Gabriel for the few moments before his feet touch solid ground.

—

Room 160 is in the corner of its hall, tucked discreetly between 162 and 158 and as unassuming as all the other doors that lead up to it. It takes Jack a long time to work up the courage to find it, and even longer to knock on the door; but after weeks of wandering, he finds that he just wants — _needs_ — company, in whatever form it takes.

The woman who answers the door is visibly weary, skin ashen and hair unkempt. Her uniform is rumpled, glasses askew. When Jack asks if Meyers is around, she sucks in a breath and suddenly looks very far away.

It's familiar, the visible loss of strength. The hopelessness, the anger.

When Gentry tells him, in a flurry of mumbled words — _discharged, don’t know, should have done something, she was fine and then she just_ wasn't — it takes all of Jack’s strength not to turn on his heel and run away.

He never even considered that Gabriel may not have chosen to leave.

—

Jack doesn't recognize himself in the mirror anymore.

It's not a bad thing, he thinks, just strange. The serums have worked literal wonders. His shoulders are broader, his waist impossibly more trim. He's several inches taller. Even his face is different, more angular and harrowed. Sounds aren't as loud, lights aren't so bright. He still can't wear gloves.

His eyes are colder.

Homesickness is a disease. Jack traces the purple skin beneath his right eye with the calloused pad of a thumb, thinks of how much he's changed, how far he's come — and fears a relapse that he can't fight off.

—

Jack is panting, breaths sharp and uneven as they rattle through his lungs. The gun in his hands is hot, thighs burning as he drops into a crouch behind a tall, mottled pillar. Gunshots fire from the north, and something _zings_ past Jack’s ear as he dives behind better cover, a jagged wall several feet away.

He reloads his rifle with practiced motions and cranes his neck to the side to glance around the wall. There's no visible hostiles, but he hears another shot and then a shout of pain. He ducks back into cover just as a bullet imbeds itself into the place that his head previously occupied.

Sniper. Somewhere west. Gunfire prattles, muffled, from 3 o'clock. If he could only —

Footsteps to his left. A man bursts through the rubble at Jack’s left, gun at the ready, but Jack downs him with a hard kick to his knee before he can open fire. He goes down like a sack of rocks. Jack fires three quick shots into his sternum and he doesn't get back up.

It's rough going, and he's pinned to his spot; it takes a lot of ducking and diving to take out the last three hostiles on his trail. Still, he manages it with minimal difficulty, eventually returning to the same outcropping where the man from earlier lies prone and still.

Jack crouches. Looks out once, twice. Another bullet whizzes over his cover and cracks into the rocky outcrop behind Jack. He studies it for a moment — angle, trajectory, _ouch_ that's gonna hurt if it hits him — and makes his move.

Someone barks an order over the com in his ear as Jack pops up, aims at the leftmost top floor window of the tall concrete building some several hundred yards away, and fires. It just takes a second, a careful lining up of his scope and a single twitch of his finger, and then it's over. The lights overhead click on one by one, humming as they wash the sim in sterile white light, and the com in his ear hums and then speaks again. This time, Jack presses it into his ear and listens.

“ _Or not_ ,” a scratchy voice buzzes from the speaker, sounding amused. “ _Good shot, Morrison_.”

“Thank you, sir,” he says, turning to help the man he downed earlier to his feet.

“Fucking hurt, man,” the guy groans, rubbing his sternum where Jack’s mock bullets embedded more-or-less harmlessly in his body armor. Jack still can't help a sympathetic grimace. “Go easier on the shots next time.”

“ _Get over it, Green. All units head to evac and prep for round two_ ,” the voice says. Green scowls and grumbles as he picks his way to the edge of the sim. Jack follows, the heavy line of his gun held carefully in his hands as he dodges empty cartridges and bits of broken concrete. There's a spot of blood on a nearby boulder.

Jack grimaces and grips his gun a little tighter.

—

It's strange to admit, but Jack likes being sore.

Lactic acid and purple bruises and aching joints mean that he's moving forward, that he's still _changing_. It's a comfortable sort of discomfort, one that keeps him from becoming too content. The more he aches, the more he rips his muscles to shreds and watches them rebuild, the stronger he becomes. The stronger he _will_ become.

The pain in his arms distracts him from the pain in his left eye, an ache that grows with every serum and registers more and more as a pounding rather than a pressure. The bruises on his torso distract him from the anger he feels towards the men that put them there — his roommate, his fellow soldiers, his own carelessness.

He deserves everything that happens to him.

He deserves all of it and more.

—

“Today marks another simulation well performed, soldier,” General Anderson tells him a few hours later, standing straight-backed and smiling in the confines of Philip’s exam room. Jack sits on the edge of a cot, wincing as Philips picks bullet shards and bits of rock out of his shoulder with a pair of tweezers.

“The board and I have been very pleased with your progress,” she continues, folding her hands behind her back. “Your training and combat scores are equally impressive; I wouldn't be surprised if you were to be assigned a mission of your own within the coming months.”

“Thank you, ma'am,” He says, half-listening, voice strained as his teeth clench against a fresh flash of pain. Philips mumbles an unthinking apology as she drops bloody bits of metal onto the tray at her elbow.

Anderson’s smile quirks a little wider, gaze sweeping over Jack’s bare chest.

“I see your healing factor is working exceptionally,” she praises. Jack tilts his head to look down to where her eyes have locked; at the deep slash across his hip, shiny with antiseptic and dark with stitches and dried blood, but already visibly healing — healed, even. The pink, puckered scar tissue is stark against his skin. Jack resists a childish urge to poke at it.

Philips huffs, breath cool against the heated skin of Jack’s shoulder, and another hot burst of pain streaks through his bicep.

“Maybe too well,” Jack says when he catches his breath.

“Metabolizing painkillers too quickly,” General Anderson nods in sympathy. “I take it your body is also trying to heal over the debris in your shoulder?”

“Not if I can help it,” Philips mumbles, so quiet Jack barely catches it. More metal falls into the tray.

“It's nothing I can't handle,” Jack says, offering Anderson a hesitant smile of his own. She seems pleased with the effort.

“Good. Well, Mr. Morrison,” Anderson nods her head. “I'll leave you to the steady hands of Doctor Philips. I just wanted to congratulate you,” she chuckles, “and finally meet the infamous Golden Boy for myself.”

Jack twitches. Philips curses at the movement and her grip on his arm tightens.

“I hope I live up to your expectations, General,” Jack says simply.

Anderson fixes him with a stare that makes his blood crawl. Her head is tilted like she's considering what he said word-by-word, the severe line of her mouth twisted into a thoughtful frown. She's got these sharp, hawklike eyes that make him feel like he's constantly being appraised — or maybe the proper term is _picked apart_. He definitely feels frozen in the headlights; his heart drums nervously as he waits for her to respond, to say anything to break the weird tension that has settled over the room.

Philips glances up at Jack; he sees the movement of her head from the corner of his eye, but he doesn't budge.

Anderson finally, after what feels like eons, nods again, curt and professional. Her voice is strange when she speaks again; balanced on a line that Jack can't yet figure out how to read between.

“And I, as well, soldier.”

Anderson breezes to the door and opens it swiftly. On her way out, she pauses; her expression is thoughtful when she looks back at Jack.

“I will be monitoring your progress,” is all she says, and then she's gone, the door closing with a quiet click behind her.

Jack doesn't notice that he's frozen staring after Anderson, shaken and lost in thought, until Philips finishes bandaging him and sends him on his way.

—

Down time means time to think.

Jack doesn't want time to think.

Time to think means time spent swathed in burning questions, time spent drowning beneath the weight of the unknown. His thoughts are prisons and atomic bombs, whispers and pleas for distraction. At night, when he tries to fall asleep, it's like his mind is screaming at him; replaying voices and thoughts and songs that he hasn't heard in years. Everything — _everything_ — culminates into a racket that makes him screw his eyes shut and resist the urge to scream.

It's awful.

So he tries to have as little down time as possible.

—

Three months and five days after Gabriel disappears, Jack falls off the climbing wall.

It feels like a betrayal. The climbing wall is his sanctuary, on par with the track and the shooting range. He climbs with the fervor of a man possessed, like every time he slaps the cold roof of the training center he leaves a broken piece of himself behind. It's cathartic. Comforting. A relief. Following the paths up the manufactured rock gives him a focus that is easy to hold and harmless to chase.

Falling from the climbing wall, however, is one of the worst feelings imaginable. As cliche as it sounds, it's like the whole thing happens in slow motion: the auto belay clicks apart when he's horizontal, practically upside down, some piece splintering off with a resounding, unnatural crack. Jack starts, alarm hot in his veins, and when his foot slips he can't recover. His aching forearms spasm as he quickly tries to readjust, fingers slipping uselessly against the wall, and with nothing to catch him, Jack falls.

He hits the ground and the world snaps to pieces.

He wakes up some time later, head spinning and something in his lower back aching like he's never felt before. The walk to medical is long and painful, and when he finally arrives Philips takes one look at him and ushers him back into the first available room.

“You're white as a sheet,” she says, laying him back against the cot, and he's out again before his back hits the cushions.

—

The fall broke his lumbar spine, and all Jack can muster up in response is a convoluted mixture of _‘oh, shit’_ and _‘well, this may as well happen’_. He's had enough bad luck recently to last a lifetime — what's a little more?

The good news is that the crack is healed by the time he reaches medical.

The bad news is that it healed wrong — not in a way that leaves him immobile, but in a way that will cause a lot of discomfort down the line — and Philips has to rebreak it. Luckily, he's asleep for that part, and Philips is kind enough to keep him that way throughout the whole process.

It's the little things.

The peripheral bad news about Jack’s frequent visits to his medic — the injuries themselves aside — is that Philips’ questions are becoming more insistent. Required professional curiosity has long tipped into something more personal, and Philips badgers him with a disarming, caring persistence. Every one of Jack’s bruises are subject for interrogation.

It's a pattern between them, the hurt and the questioning and the avoidance, but now Jack sees the escalation among the routine. Her questions are pickaxes chipping at his resolve, and when Philips waves his x-rays like white flags and looks at him with tired eyes, practically begging him for answers, he feels weaker than he has in a long, long time.

She wraps him up with white tape and injects his back with something that makes it feel tingly and numb, and the warmth of her hand on his shoulder is a fresh reminder of just how lonely he's become; and how far he's pushing himself to forget that fact. He wants to cry, to scream, to spill his heart, all simply because of how gentle her touch is against his skin. He's floating without an anchor, and he realizes with terrifying finality that his bruises aren't holding him together — they're tearing him apart.

But _God_ , there's so much fear in being known.

—

The hallway from Philips’ exam room to the lobby is long and dim, crowded with too many doors to count and placard after placard of nameless people. Jack traces the fingertips of one hand over the wall as he walks. His eyelids are heavy; the combined stresses of the afternoon have left him feeling fatigued and ready to fall asleep on the first soft surface he comes across.

Too busy focusing on not tripping over his own feet, Jack doesn't notice the clamor of too many bodies in too small a space until the hallway finally yawns into the lobby. He blinks rapidly as the sudden brightness forces his eyes to adjust, and when his vision settles he's greeted by a wash of camouflage.

Camouflage, bloodstains, and dust. A group of soldiers packed onto the creaky waiting chairs, the wayward cots, the floor; IV stands littering the spaces between them, delivering fluids and serum uptakes and god knows what else. The once-pristine white floor is covered with scuff marks and discarded duffle bags. The air is thick with the quiet tension of uncertain security; the quiet hum of voices glad to be safe but mourning what was lost in return for that safety.

Jack heart staccatos, the unsteady beat of a man who has come face to face with his future and is unsure of what he sees.

When Jack catches sight of Gabriel, sitting on the floor between a woman with a bandaged head and a man with a sling holding up his left arm, it's like the whole world comes to a screeching stop.

All Jack can think, like a broken record, is that same round robin of _‘oh, shit’_ and _‘well, this may as well happen’_.

And then Gabriel turns. Their eyes meet. The room spins.

Gabriel’s eyes widen. Jack's look away.

And, like the coward that he's become, Jack runs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Pops a nervous bottle in celebration of 30k) 
> 
> Hey, fam...... what’s good.......
> 
> So, uh, first of all, long time no see! This chapter, despite being one of my favorite forms of writing (a bunch of vignettes all strung together), took forEVER to write. I would blame writer’s block, but I honestly just got busy and insecure (and REALLY into star trek tos). You know how it is. 
> 
> On an extraneous note, I bought the r76 lego from target today and boy howdy, do I love legos. Lego jack has the WORST hair but I love him anyways. On another, ANOTHER note, if you have a Twitter and tweet about r76 stuff please drop your @ because I need to follow more r76 people. Thanks in advance /prayer hands emoji/
> 
> Anyways, despite unfortunate delay, I’m back into this fic and writing with a newfound vengeance, so hopefully that fact is reflected in the time between upcoming updates! Either way, thank you all so SO much for reading and commenting and all that awesome stuff. You keep me motivated like nothing else does!! I really hope to see you again soon <3 
> 
> *chapter title based on If I Get High by Nothing But Thieves 💙


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